
aass_E.JiAlll 
Book-^AA 



W^- 



/ 



/ 















The 

Poetical 
WorKs of 

Jean Ingclow 



*^^* 



New York 

Hurst and Company 

Publishers 




THB 



POETICAL WORKS 



OT 3r 



JEAIvT IN'GELOW. 



mCLUBING 

THE SHEPHERD LADY AND OTHER POEMS. 



NEW YORK 

HURST AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS. 



Diviued 9 

IIouois. — Parti 13 

llouois.— Part 11 20 

Kequiescat in Pace,... 80 

Supper al the Mill 87 

Scholar and Carpenter,.. 45 
The Star's Mouumeiit,... 57 

A Dead Year 77 

Reflections written for 

tlie Portfolio Society, . 83 

The Letter L, 85 

The High Tide on tho 

Coast of Lincolnahiro 

(1571), 107 

Afternoon at a I'arsonage, 113 
Songs of Seven : 

Seven times One. — Ex- 
ultation 121 

Seven times Two. — 
Romance, 123 



Seven timoa Three.— 
Love 138 

Seven times Four. — 

Maternity, 134 

Seven times Five. — 

Widowhood 125 

Seven times Six. — Giv- 
ing in Marriage 123 

Seven times Seven. — 
Longing for Home,. 127 
A Cottage in a Chine, . . . 12!) 

Persepiione 133 

A Sea Song 13G 

iirotliers, and a Sermon, . .137 

A Wedding Song 159 

TIh; Four Bridges IGO 

A Mother Bhowing the 

Portrait of her Child,.. 181 
Strife! and Peaco l!S5 



A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 



The Dreams that camo 

True 1R8 

Bongs on tiie Voices of Birds: 
Introduction. — Child 

andlioalnian 203 

The Nightingale heard 

by the Unsatistled 

lieart 203 

Sand Martins 204 

A Poet in his Youth, 

and the Cuckoo Bird, 200 
A Raven in a White 

Chine 211 

The Warbling of 

Blackbirds 213 

Sea-Mews in Winter 

Time 214 

Laurance, 215 



Songs of the Night Watches ; 
Introductory. — Ap- 
prenticed 244 

Tlie First Watch — 

Tired 245 

The Middle Watch,... 250 
Tlio Morning Watch.. 25^4 
CJoncluding Song of 

i3t.'.vn 255 

A Story ot Doom, 35G 

C/ontrastf d Songs : 

Sailing b(;yond Seas, . 828 

Remonstrance, 329 

Song for the Night of 
Christ's Resurrection, 330 

Song of Mai-garet 835 

S<;ngofthe Going Away, 338 
A Luj and u Lute.. . . . 887 



viii 



CONTENTS. 



Gladys and her Island, . . 345 

Songs with Preludes : 

Wedlock, 368 

Regret, 371 



Lamentation, .... ... 371 

Dominion, 375 

Friendship 377 

Winstanley -880 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, AND 
OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 



POEMS 



The Monitions of the Un- 
seen 890 

A Birthday Walk....... 407 

Not in Vain I Waited,. . 409 

A Gleaning Song 410 

With a Diamond, 410 

Fancy 411 

Compensation 413 

Looking Down 413 

Married Lovers 413 

A Winter Song, 414 

Binding Sheaves, 415 

Work 416 

Wishing, 417 

To , 417 

On the Borders of Can- 
nock Chase 418 

The Mariner's Cave, .... 418 

A Reverie, 427 

Defton Wood 429 

The Snowdrop Monu- 
ment (in Lichfield Ca- 
thedral), 430 

An Ancient Chess King, 432 
Comfort in the Night, . . . 433 
Though all Great Deeds, 433 
The Long White Seam, 434 
An Old Wife's Song, ... 435 

Cold and Quiet 436 

A Snow Mountain, 437 

Sleep, 438 

Promising, 438 

Love, 439 

Poems Written on the Death 
of Three Children : 
Henry, aged eight years, 439 



aged 



Samuel, 

years, . 
Katie, atred five 



nine 



443 
446 



years. 
The Two Margarets : 
I. Margaret by the 

Mere Side, 449 

II. Margaret in the Xe- 
bec, 459 

The Shepherd Lady,. . . . 476 

Above the Clouds 478 

Love's Thread of Gold, . . 478 

Failure 479 

One Morning, Oh 1 so 

Earlv 479 

The Days without Alloy, 480 
The Leaves of Lign Aloes, 481 
On the Rocks by Aber- 
deen 481 

Feathers and Moss, 482 

Sweet is Childhood, 483 

The Gypsy's Selling Song, 483 

My Fair Lady, 483 

Sleep and Time 484 

Master, quoth the Auld 

Hound 484 

Like a Laverock in the 

Lift 485 

At One Again,. 486 

I. Noonday, 486 

n. Sunset, 486 

in. The Dream 487 

IV. The Waking, 488 

V. A Song 488 

VI. Lovers 489 

Vn. Fathers 490 

Notes 491 



POEMS. 



DIVIDED. 



Ax empty sky, a world of heather, 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 

We two among them wading together. 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

Twixt the two bi'own butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth 

And short dry grass under foot is brown. 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the down. 

n* 

Over the grass we stepped unto it. 

And God He knoweth how blithe we were f 
Kever a voice to bid us eschew it : 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair I 



IP DIVIDED. 

fley the green ribbon \ we kneeled beside it. 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen j 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it Biing to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, 

We lapped the grass on that youngling spring j 

8wept back its rushes, smoothed its clover. 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 

IIL 

A dapple sky, a world of meadows, 
Circling above us the black rooks fly 

Forward, backward ; lo, their dark shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 

Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back j 

And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather 
Till one steps over the tiny strand. 

So naiTow, in sooth, that still together 
On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 
On either margin, our songs all done, 

We move apart, while she singeth ever. 
Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over " — 1 may not follow , 
I cry, " Keturn" — but he cannot come : 

We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 
Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb 



DiVIDBA U 

IV. 

A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
A little talking of outward things : 

The careless beck is a merry dancer, 

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 

" Cross to me now — for her wavelets swell : ■■ 
"I may not cross " — and the voice beside her 

Faintlv reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 

No second crossing that ripple's flow : 
" Come to me now, for the Avest is burning ; 

Come ere it darkens ; " — " Ah, no ! ah, no 1 " 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching- — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep : 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them ; we walk, an^ 
weep. 

V. 

A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed, 

Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping. 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears 5 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,. 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 

We to walk on in oiir grassy places 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 

With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud- 



\ DIVIDED. 

VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 
A little piping of leaf -hid birds ; 

A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as curdi. 

Bare glassy slopes, where kids are tethered ; 

Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 
Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered 

Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide, 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew and shines the river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 

But two are walking apart forever, 
And wave their hands for a mute farewell 



VIL 

A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river liasteth, her banks recede r 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air), 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 



JIONOJiS. It 

While, O my heart ! as white sails shiver 

And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide. 



% 



ITow hard' to follow, witli lips that (jnivcr, 
That moving speck on the far-off side I 

Farther, fartlicr — I see it — know it — 

My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it 

As I walk desolate day by day. 

VIII. 

And yet I know past all doubting, truly — 

And knowledge greater than grief can dim — 

I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea, better — e'en better than I love him. 

And as I walk by the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
1 say, " Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me,* 



HONORS.— PART L 

A Scholar is musing on Ids Want of Success. 

To strive — and fail. Yes, I did strive andfai\ 

I set mine ei/es vpon a certain night 
To find a: certain star — and could not hail 

With them its deep-set light. 

Fool that Twas f I will rehearse my faidt: 
T, VHltgless, thong lit nn/self on high to lift 

Among the vnnged — I set these feet that halt 
To run against the sicift. 

And yet this man, that loved me so, can write'— 
That ioves me, I would say, can let me see ; 

Or fain 'aould have me think he counts but light 
These Honors lost to w^ 



14 HONORS. 

[The Letter of his FriendJ] 

" What are they ? that old house of yours which ga\e 
' Such welcomes oft to me, the sunbeams fall 
Still down the squares of blue and white which 2)av«' 
Its hospitable hall. 

" A brave old house ! a garden full of bees. 

Large (b-o))ping po])pies, and queen hollyhockf 

With butterliios for crowns — tree peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks. 

" Go, Avhen the shadow of your house is long 

Upon the garden — when some new-waked bird. 

Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song, 
And not a leaf is stirred ; 

" But every one drops dew f^om either edge 
Upon its fellow, while an amber ray 

Slants uj) among the tree-tops like a wedge 
Of liquid gold — to play 

" Over and under them, and so to fall 
Upon that lane of water lying below — 

That piece of sky let in, that you do call 
A pond, but which I know 

" To be a deep and wondrous world ; for I 

Have seen the trees within it — marvelous things 

So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly 
But she would smite her winos • — 

"Go there, I say ; stand at the water's brink. 

And shoals of spotted grayling you shall see 
Basking between the shadows — look, and think 

' This beauty is for me ; 

" 'For me this freshness in the morning hours j 
For me the water's clear tranquillity ; 

For me that soft descent of chestnut floweri | 
The cushat's cry for me. 



ffONOHS. V 

•** The lovely laughter of the windswayed wheat ; 

The easy slope of yonder pastornl hill ; 
The sedirv brook whereby tlie red kine meet 

And wade and drink their lill. 

^ Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea 
All fair with wing-like sails you may discern ; 

Be glad, and say, ' U'iiis beauty is for me — 
A thing to love and learn. 

" *For nie the bounding in of tides ; for me 
The lying bare of sands when they retreat ; 

The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee 
When waves and sunshine meet.' 

" So, after gazing, homeward turn, and monnt 
To that long chamber in the roof ; there tell 

Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count 
And prize and ponder well. 

" The lookings onward of the race before 
It had a past to make it look behind ; 

Its reverent wonders, and its doubtings sore, 
Its adorations blind. 

"The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow 
Of chants to freedom by the old world sung ; 

The sweet love cadences that long ago 
Dropped from the old world tongue. 

" And then this new-world lore that takes account 
Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple whirl 

Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount 
And greet the Irish Earl ; 

" O float across the tube that Herschel sway*, 
Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist } 

Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways, 
Like scarfs of amethyst. 



» ffONORS. 

" O titrange it is and wide the new- world lor«ii 
For next it treateth of onr native dust 1 

Must dig out buried monsters, and explore 
The green eartli's fruitful crust ; 

" JVrust write the story of her seething youth — 
How lizards paddled in her luke-warm seas ; 
Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth 
\ Count seasons on her trees ; 

** Must know her weight, and pry into her age, 
Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell i 

Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, 
Her cold volcanoes tell ; 

" And treat her as a ball, that one might pass 
From this hand to the other — such a ball 

As he could measure with a blade of grass, 
And say it was but small I 

*' Honors ! O friend I pray you bear with mc : 
The grass hatli time to grow in meadow land*. 

And leisurely the opal murmuring sea 
Breaks on her yellow sands ; 

" And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest 

Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell ; 

A 'id leisurely down fall from ferny crest 
The dew-drops on the well ; 

" And leisurely your life and spirit grew, 

With yet the time to grow and ripen free : 
No judgment past withdraws that boon from yon, 

Isor granteth it to me. 

I 

" Still must I plod, and still in cities moil ; 

From precious leisure, learned leisure far, 
Dull my best self with handling common soil ; 

Yet mine those honors are. 



hONOJiS. vt 

" Mine tlicy arc culled ; tlicy iiie a name wliicili means 
''IMiis man had steady judses, traiKjiiil nerves; 

Hyre, as in other lield.s, the most he gleans 
Who works and never swerves. 

** ' We measure not his mind ; we cannot tell 

What lieth under, over, or beside 
The test we put him lo : he doth excel, 

We know, wheie lie is tried ; 

"'But, if he boasts some furtlicr excellence — 

Mind to create as well as to attain ; 
To sway his peers by golden elocjuence, 

Aa wind doth shift a fane ; 

"'To sing among the poets — we are naught : 

Wo cannot drop a line into that sea 
And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, 

Nor map a simile. 

" 'It may be of all voices sublunar 

The only one he echoes we did try ; 
We may have come u|)()n the only star 

That twinkles in his sky.* 

•* And 80 it was with mc.** 

O false my friend J 
False, false, a random charge, a hla/tne undue . 
Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end: 
False, false, as you are true / 

Hut I read on : " And so it was with me ; 

Your golden constellations lying apart 
They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, 

Nor noted on their chart. 

"And yet to yon arul not to inc belong 

'J'hose finer instincts that, like second sight 

And hearing, catch creation's uudcr-song, 
And «ee by inner light. 



It HONORS. 

" You are a well, whereou I, gazing, see 
Reflections of the u})per heavens — a well 

From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me --• 
Some underwave's low swell. 

" I cannot soar into the heights you show, 
Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal ; 

But it is much that high things are to know» 
That deep things are to feel, 

" 'Tis youi'S, not mine, to pluck out of your breast 
Some human truth, Avhose "workings recondite 

Were unattired in words, and manifest 
And hold it forth to light, 

" And cry, • Behold this thing that I have found.' 
And though they knew not of it till that day, 

Nor should have done with no man to expound 
Its meaning, yet they say, 

"* We do accept it : lower than the shoals 
We skim, this diver went, nor did create 

But lind it for us deeper in our souls 
Than we can penetrate.' 

* You were to me the world's interpreter, 
The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongu«, 

And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words and sung. 

" And what am I to you ? A steady hand 
To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal ; 

Merely a man that loves you, and will stand 
By you, whate'er befall. 

" But need we praise his tendance tutelar 

Who feeds a flame that warms him ? Yet 'tis true 

I love you for the sake of what you are» 
And not of what you do : — 



I 



troNORS. w 

"As heavGn*8 high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue 
Tlie one revolveth ; tbi-ough iiis course immense 

Mi^lit love his fellow of the damask hue, 
For like, and diffei'enee. 

*' For different patliways ever more decreed 

To intersect, but not to interfere ; 
For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, 

One center and one year j 

" For deep affinities, for drawings strong, 
That by their nature each must needs exert ; 

For loved alliance, and for union long. 
That stands before desert. 

*' And yet desert makes brighter not the less, 
For nearest his own star he shall not fail 

To think those rays unmatched for nobleness. 
That distance counts but pale. 

" Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, 

And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold ; " — 

Ah^ there! 8 the thought which makes his randotn line 
J)ear as refinld gold I 

TJien shall I drinJc this draught ofoxymd, 
Part sv)eet,part sharp ? Myself o''erprized to knoio 

Ts sharj) / the cause is sweet, and truth to tell 
Few ^ooidd that cause forego^ 

Which is, that this of all the men on earth 

Doth love me rcell enough to count me great -^ 
7b think my said and his of equal girth — • 

liberal estimate ! 

And yet it is so / he is hound to me, 

For human love tnaAes aliens iiear of kin f 
By it I rise, there is equality : 

1 rise to thee, my twin. 



9b ffOATOHS. 

" T:ike courage " — courage ! ajf, my purple 2^€€i 
I will take coura(/e J for tlu/ Tyvian nays 

Refresh vie to the heart, a)ul strauydy dear 
And healing is thy praise. 

"Take courage," quoth he, " and respect the niinu 
Your Maker gave, for good your fate fullill ; 

The fate rounci many liearts your own to wind.'* 
Ttjoin soul, I will I I xcilli 



HONORS.— PART IL 

Tlie Answer. 

As one who, journeying, cheeks the rein in haste 

Because a chasm doth yawn across his way 
Too Avide for h'aping, and too steeply faced 
For a '^limber to essav — 

As such an one, being brouglit to sudden stand, 
Doubts all his foregone j>ath if 'twere the true. 

And turns to this and then to the other hand 
As knowing not what to do, — 

So I, being clieeked, am with my path at strife 
Wliieh led to sueh a chasm, and there doth end. 

False path ! it cost me jtrieeless years ol' life. 
My well-beloved friend. 

There fell a flute when Ganymede went up — 
The flute that he was wont to play upon : 

It dropped beside the jonquirs milk-white cup, 
And freckled cowslij)s wan — 

Dropped from his heedless liand when, dazed ftud 
mute, 

He saiUnl upon the eagle's quivering Aving, 
.Asj)iring, panting — ay, it droj)ped — the flute 

Krewhile a cherished thing. 



HONORS. |] 

Among the delicate grasses and the bells 

Of crocuses tliat s])otted a rill side, 
I picked up a flute, and its clear swells 

To my young lips replied. 

I played thereon, and its response was sweet ; 

But, lo, they took from me that solacing reed. 
" O shame ! " they said, " such music is not meet ; 

Go up like Ganymede. 

"Go up, despise tiiese liumble grassy things. 
Sit on the gcjldeil edge of yonder cloud." 

Alas I thougli ne'er for me those eagle wings 
Stooped from their eyrie proud. 

My flute ! and flung away its echoes sleep ; 

But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low ; 
And like a last year's leaf enshrouded deep 

Under the drifting snow, 

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand 
Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, 

And left to rot betwixt the sea and land. 
My helpless spirit lies. 

Rueing, I think for what then was I made ; 

What end appointed for — what use designed? 
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed — 

Unveil these eyes gone blind. 

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day 

Over our cliffs a white mist unfurled, 
So thick, one standing on their brink might SJiy, 

Lo, here doth end the world. 

A white abyss beneath, and naught beside ; 

Yet, hark ! a cropping sound not ten feet down; 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied 

Through rock-patha cleft and brown. 



99 J^O.VOA'S. 

Ami lirrc and tluTt* jti;rtH>M In Its of jyniss ptHMH^l througU 
SmII iMVi'inltT, Mild st'M (liiil'l ; ilini ln-liold, 

Tliu mi,s|, Niiltsidinj^ »>vt'r, hiin-d (u \ i«>\v 
A l>«a8t of gitiiit mold. 

Sli«' H«'tMiu<d M i;rr;»l. s«>!i iiioiisUt 1 villi; t'tnitriit 

Willi all lu>r t-ulis alxml lu-r ; l»ul doi>|» - <U'Oj>-* 

Tlu* Nul>lU> mist \vt»nt iloaliiijj; ; ilw dosccnt. 
Slio\v«>d llu< world's ond was sl(>0|». 

It Nhook, it nu'll('«l, sliakiiiij; mort', till, lo, 

'Plu' sprawliiij;' monstor was avock ; hvv brood 

\N't'n< l)ii\\ ld«>rs. wlirrt'oii staincws wliilt* as mu>w 
Sat w atcliiiiy,' l\>r llu'ir food. 

TluMi omu» Jii»'a"m it sank, its day was dono i 
I'arl rolled awav, pari vaiiislunl iiIUmIv, 

And >;liiniiuMiu^ s^il'llv iiiu'or llu> wliito sun, 
lu'liold 1 u groat wliilo sou. 

O that t1u> mist \v1>ioh voilotli my To-coino 
Would so disstilvo aud vu"ld uuto miuo oye8 

A worthy path ! I'd r»Mii;l iu>l wv"arist)mo 
l.oiiij toil, nor tMittM'ju'iso. 

« 

]iut strain t(^ vi^aoli it ; av, with wr»>stlin«;*s stout 
And liopt's ilial in«n in iho dark will grv^w 

^^Liki> idauts in duniitons, n^aohinv; foolors out), 
Ai\ti ploddings wary and slow. 

Is thort* suoh path already mad<> to lit 
Tho morts\jro of tny l\u>t V It ^il\all atone 

For miudi, it" 1 at ItMi^lli may lijiht on it 
And kiu>w it l\>r ininr own. 

But is thon^ uot\o ? wliy. tl\ >n 'lis moiv than well i 
And i;lad at luvvrt mysoK" will liow oiu> out, 

TaM nn> luMMilv siuH* ; t\>r. si>olh to tell, 
Tho norest tlolo is dv>ubl — 



/w.vons. 

Douhf, a 1)];iiik twili^lid of tlic Iicart, wlii<0i iiiiirp 

All H\V(M>l.(<Ht. ('.OJOI'H ill il.N (lilllllCHN N.'llll*^ ; 

A N<tiil inist, lliroii^li wIiohh riflH fMiiiilinr Hlai'M 
Jd'liiililiiiH, \vu inisiiaiiM^ 

A ri|»|)l»' on llui Iiiiicr N(^•l, wliioli mIimIvch 
'i'liusc iiii;iin(\M lliai on ils lirciHr irposcl ; 

A fold iijtoii llio wiinl Mwaycd lla|;, iJiai l)r<'akil 
'riin inoMi* it, «lis(il(>H(>(l. 

(loiild ! () iIo!il»(, ! I know my dcHiiny ; 

I feel llici' llnl (criiif^ l»ii<l likd in my IddUHl, ; 

1 I'aiiiioi, looHc, hill. I will HJiig to iJic*', 

Ami ilaU.t'r I.Ik'o I.o ruHl.. 



'I'licro is no (•crlainly, *' my IxtMom'H ^iii'kI," 
No lU'ovin^ Cor llir (Jiin^^H wIhtim)!' yo wot \ 

l''or, liko iJio (lead (,o Hif^lil, iiniiiajiir(wl,, 
'I'JH'y avc, and l.ln'y arn nol,. 

IJiil, Hiircly an llicy air, for (3od ih (aailli, 
And aM (licy aro nol., for w<i Haw IJkmii (li<», 

So Hiircly from iIk^ licavm dropH li^lil, Tor youth, 
If yonl.li will walk l.licrtOiy. 

And can T mw IIiIh li/jflil. ? II. iiiiiy \h\ ho ; 

" But Hcf il, tliiiH and llnis," my lallwiH naid. 
JMiii living <lo not riih- lliiw world ; all, nol 

It Ih tin; dead, llic. dr. id. 

Mliall I 1)(^ slave lo every nolde hoiiI, 

Study the d(i;u|, juid to their HjtirltH IxmkI : 

Or loarii to read my own lieait'n f(dded H'-.roll, 
AikI make H(df rule my end ? 

Tlioii>^ht from irithout — O hIkiII I lake on lrii»t,, 
And life from olherH jnode!<Ml Hteal or win ; 

Or Hhall I Iwave to lif.';lit, and ch-ar of riiHt 
My Iriio life from irlthiit. 



84 itONORS. 

O, let me be myself I But where, O where, 
Under this heap of {)reco(l nt, this jnouiul 

Of customs, modes, and ma::ims, cumbrance rare^ 
Shall the Myself be fouLd? 

O thou Jfi/self, thy fathers the debarred 
None of their wisdom, but their folly came 

Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard 
For thee to quit the same. 

With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, 
And with tradition tarnished His revealed ; 

With vain protections they endangered youth, 
With layings bare they sealed. 

What aileth thee, myself ? Alas ! thy hands 
Are tired with old opinions — lieir and son, 

Thou hast inherited thy father's lands 
And all his debts thereon. 

O that some power would give me Adam's eyes 1 
O for the straight simplicity of Eve 1 

For I see naught, or grow, poor fool, too wise 
With seeing to believe. 

Exemplars may be heaj)cd until they hide 

The rules tliat they were made to render plain | 

Love may be watched, her nature to decide. 
Until love's self doth wane. 

Ah me ! and when forgot. en and foregone 
We leave the learning f departed days. 
And cease the generati nspa^t to con, 
\ Their wisdom and their ways — 

When fain to learn we lean into the dark. 
And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, 

Or find the secret boundary lines which mark 
Where soul and matter kiss — 



ifONOliS.. d8 

F.'iir world 1 these puzzled souls of ours grow weak 
With beating their bruised wings against the rim 

That bounds their utmost tlying, whenthey seek 
The distant and the dim. 

We pant, we strain like birds against their wires ; 

Are siek to reaeh the vast and the beyond ; — 
An \ what avails, if still to our desires 

Those far-off gulfs resj)ond ? 

Contentment comes not therefore ; still there lies 
An outer distance when the first isliailed. 

And still forever yawns before our eyes 
An UTMOST — that is veiled. 

Searching those edges of the universe, 

We leave the central fields a fallow part ; 

To feed the eye more ])reei()iis things amerce, 
And starve the darkened lieart. 

Then all goes wrong : the old foundations rock. 
One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod ; 

One striking with a pickax thinks the shock 
Shall move the seat of God. 

A little way, a very little way 

(Life is so short), they dig into the rind, 

And they are very sorry, so they say, — 
Sorry for what they find. 

Hut truth is sacred — ay, and must be told : 

There is a story h^ng beloved of man ; 
We must forego it, for it will not hold — 

Nature had no such 2)lan. 

And then, " if God hath said if," some should err, 
" We have the story from tlie fountain head : 

Whv, then, what better than the old reply. 
The first " Yea, uatu God said ? " 



» HONORS. 

Tlio garden. O the giutlon, must it go, 

Source of our hopo and our luost dear regret 4 

The <inciei:t story, must it no more show 
How men mny win it yet? 

And all upon the Titan child's decree. 
The haby science, born but yesterday. 

That in its rash unlearned infancy 
Witl: slu'lls and stones at play, 

And delving in the outworks of this world, 
And little crevices that it could reach, 

Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled 
Under au ancient beach, 

And other waifs that lay to its young mind 
Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, 

By gain whereof it could not fail to lind 
Much proof of ancientry. 

Hints at a pedigree withdrawn and vast. 
Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, 

Or soulless origin, and twilight passed 
In the primeval seas. 

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been 
Of truth not meant for man inheritor ; 

As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen 
And not provided for 1 

Knowledge ordained to live ! although tlie fate 
Of much that went before it was — to die, 

And be called ignorance by such as wait 
Till the next drift comes by. 

O marvelous credulity of man I 

If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know 
Or follow up the mighty Artisan 

Unless He A\illed it so? 



ROl/ORS. M 

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth 
That of the Made He shall be found at fault, 

And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth 
J3y force or by assault ? 

But if he keeps not secret — if thine eyes 
He openeth to His wondrous work of late — 

Tliink how in soberness thy wisdom lies, • 

And have the grace to wait. 

Wait, nor against the half -learned lesson fret, 

Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, 
Becauie thou canst not reconcile as yet 

The Worker and the word. 

Either the Worker did in ancient days 

Give us the word, His tale of love and might ; 

(And if in truth He gave it us, who says 
He did not give it right ?) 

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed 

We know not if He is — b}' whom our years 

Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead. 
And the unfathered spheres. 

We sit unowned upon our burial sod, 

And know not whence we come or whose we be, 

Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, 
Thp rocks of Calvary : 

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page 

Wrought us by some who thought with death to 
cope ; 

Despairing comforters, from age to age 
Sowing the seeds of hope : 

Gracious deceivei's, who have lifted us 

Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth \ 
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us 

With sacred love of truth ! 



M ifONOHS. 

Farewell to them : yet pause ere thou unmoof 
And sot thine ark adrift on unknown seas f 

How wort thou bottorod so, or more secure 
Thou, and thy destinies J 

And if ihou soavchost, and art made to fear 
Faoiiig of unread riddles dark and hard, 

And mastorina; not their majesty austere. 
Their meanujg locked and barred : 

How would it make the weight and wonder lesA 
If, lift«>d from immortal shoulders down, 

Tlie worlds wore cast on seas of emptiness 
In realms wiiliout a crown, 

And (if there were no God) were left to rue 
Dominion of the air and of tlie lire ? 

Thou if there bo a God, " Let God be true, 
And every man a liar." 

But as for me, I do not speak as one 

That is exempt : I am witli life at feud : 

IMy heart ro})roaohoth mo, as there were none 
Of so small gratitude ; 

"NVherewith sliall I console thoo, heart o' mine, 
Ai;d still thy yearning and losolvo thy doubt' 

Tliat which I know, and that which I divine, 
Alas 1 liave left thee out. 

I have aspired to know the might of God, 
As if the story of His love was furled, 

Nor snored foot the grasses e'er had trod 
Of this redoom6d world : — 

Have sunk my thoughts as load into the deep, 
To gro]ie for that abyss whence evil grow. 

And sj>irits of ill, with eyes that cannot weeft 
Hungry and desolate flow ; 



noNons. dd 

As if their legions did not one day crowd 
The deaLli-pangs of tlie Conquering Good to see I 

X^, if ii sacred head had never bowed 
1m (leat'i for man — for me ; 

Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons 
Of men, from thralldom with the nether kings 

In that dark country where those evil ones 
Tiail llieir unhallowed wings. 

And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, 
And didst Thou take to heaven a luiman brow? 

Dost ))l('ad with man's voice by the marvelous sea ? 
Art Thou his kinsman now ? 

O Ood, O kinsman loved, but not enoligh ? 

() man, with eyes majestic after death, 
Wliose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, 

Whose lips drawn human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, 
Jjy that one nature which doth hold us kin, 

By tliat high lieaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine 
To draw us sinners in, 

By Thy last silence in the judgment-liall, 
By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, 

By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 
I pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast aw»y, 
Die ere the guest adored she entertain — 

Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 

Come weary-eyed from seeking in the niglit 
Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless woldj 

Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light. 
And cannot find their fold. 



80 XEQUIESCAT m PACE. 

And 0('i<»ii, O WatoluT, witli llio sl(H'j)k's8 brow, 
Piitlu'tii' in its yoai-ning — deign ivj)ly : 

Is th(>re, O is iIuto ;uii;ht tliat such as lliou 
Wouldst take from sucli as 1? 

Aro there no briers across Thy pathway tliriwt? 

Are tlieri> no thorns ll\at compass it about? 
Mor any stones that 'I'hou wilt deign to trust 

j\Iy hands to gather out ? 

O, if thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, dehiy — 

Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me? — 
There is a bett(>r way. 

What though unmarked tl»c happy vorkmati toil, 
And bri'ak nntlianked of man the stubborn ch>d J 

It is enough, foi' sacred is the soil, 
Dear aro the bills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, 

Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing his glory wrong. 

Frii'ud, it is time Vo work. I say to tbeo. 
Thou dOst all earthly good by nuudi excel: 

Thou and foil's blessing are enough for me : 
My work, luy work — fareweli I 



REQFIESCAT IN PACE. 

O MT heart, my heart is sick a-wishing and awaiting ; 
The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his 
way ; 
And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through 
the grating 
Looks and longs and longs ana wishe* ly^ »ts open, 
ing day. 



KEQUIESCA T m PACE. ft 

On tlio wild |)iir|)l(' moiiiil.iliis, :ill alotui witli no olluT, 
TliO Hlrciiy; Icnihic iiioiiiidiiiis, lie longed, Iio lonj^'ed 
to bo ; 
And li(( HlooiK'd to IvisH Iiis father, and lio stooped to 
kisH Ins niotlier, 
And till I said *' Adieu, swoot Sir," i>o quite forgot 
me. 



Iln wrote of ilicir white uunicnt, the ghostly capon that 
screen tlu ni, 
Of the storm winds that beat thorn, their tliun<h.'r. 
rents an<l H(!ars, 
And the paradise of pKiple, and tho golden slopoa 
atweon them, 
And lields, wli(u-o grow God's gentian bolls, and 
11 is croeiis stars. 

Jfo wrote of frail gau/y clouds, thatdroj) on them liko 
fleeces, 
AikI inak(! \iyi'v\\ tlx.'lr fir forests, and f(!ed theii 
mosses hoar ; 
Or come sailing up \\w, valleys, and-get wrecked and 
go to pieces, 
Liko sloops against their cruel strength : then ho 
wrote no nun-e. 



O the silen(!o that came next, tho patJonco and long 
aching I 
They never said so much as " IIo was a dear loved 
son ; *' 
Not th(? father to tho mother moaned, that dreary 
stillness lireaking : 
** Ah I wherefore didholoav?u» so — this, our only 
one ? " 



They sat within, as waiting, until tho neighbors prayed 
them, 
At Croi'ier, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and cbango 
to bo ; 



83 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency a.f 
frayed them, 
Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and tool 
me. 

It was three months and over since the dear lad had 
started : 
On tlie green downs at Cromer I sat to see fcht 
view ; 
\3n an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern 
had parted. 
Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old 
and the new. 

3elow me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stoop- 
ing, 
And ho dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet 
dye ; 

A.nd he dyed the lighthouse towers ; every bird with 
white wing swooping 

Took his colors, and the clilts did, and the yawning 

sky. 

Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and 
heather, 
Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer 
. town ; 
And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet 
feather 
Torr froni the folded wings of clcuus, while he S'J 
l.ed down. 

Wben I looked, I dared not sigh : — In the light of 
God's splendor, 
With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what 
am T ? 
But that ]>assion and outpouring seemed an awful 
sign and tender. 
Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on tuarth 
and sky. 



REQ UIESCA T IN PA CE. 88 

for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and 

trouble 1 
On that sultr)' August eve trouble h;icl made mo 

meek : 
f was tired of my sorrow — so faint, for it was 

double 
In the weight of its oppression, that ] could not 

speak I 

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes 

M'cre feeding, 

And the dull cars with murniurof waters s.-itisfied ; 

But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts 

and fancy leading 

Across the bounds of waking life to the oilier side. 

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters 
turning, 
And saw tlie flakes of scarlet from wave to wave 
tossed on ; 
And tho scarlet mix with azure, where a Leap of gold 
lay burning 
On tlie clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was 
gone. 

Then I thought a far-off shout dropi»ed across the 
still water — 
A quest.ion as I took it, for soon an answer came 
I'rom the tall white ruined lighthouse : "If it be the 
old man's daughter 
That wo woi of," ran the answer, "what then — 
who's to blame 'i " 

1 looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm- 

broken : 
A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched to 

sea ; 
l/nto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff tho bird 

had spoken, 
And a trembling seized my spirit, for thev talked 

of me. 



N ^EQCVESC.i T IN PACE. 

r was tho oM man's tluiiglitor, the bird wont on to 



name lum ; 



" lie loYOil to count tho stavlinirs as ho sat in the 



sun ; 



Long ;vuo lio sorvoil with Xolson, and liis stcx'y did 
not shanio him : 
Ay, tho oUi man was a good man — andliis work 
was done." 

T\\o skiiT was like a crescent, ghost of some moon do- 
pa rtod, 
Frnil, white, sho rookod and courtsycd as tho rod 
wave she orossod, 
And tho thing within sat paddling, and the crescent 
dipped atul darted. 
Flying on, again was shouting, but tho words wore 
lost. 

I said, " Tliat thing is hooded ; I could hoar but that 
tloweth 
Tlie great hood bolow its mouth ;" then tho bird 
n\ade reply, 
** If they know not. moro's tho pity, for the little 
shrew mouse kuoweth. 
And tho kite knows, and tho eagle, and the gload 
and pye.'* 

And ho stopped to whoi his beak on the stones of the 
coping ; 
And when ouoe n\oro tho shout >?ame, in quoruloua 
tones he spake, 
^^ What I said was *n\oro's the pity ;' if the heart be 
long past hoping, 
liOt it. sav of death, *I know it/ or doubt on and 
broali. 

" Men must die — one dies by day, and near hira 
moans his mother, 
Thov dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it 
'fuUloth: 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 89 

And orio ^WvA about, \\u\ nildiiif^ht, and tlio wind 
inoiiiis, ;ui(| no oIImt, 
And llic Niiow j^Iv(!H liini a burial - ;ui(l (jlo<l lovofl 
tkcni botli. 



"U'he first Ii.illi no advantage — it Hhall not Bootlie 1ii« 
hIijihIxm- 
'i r:at a lock of liin brown hair liJH fatlK^r aye Hliall 
I:cr'|.; 
Fci IIk! lust, 1h' notliing gnidgetli, it wliall not liis 
fjui<'t oinnbcr, 
That in a <,'old(3n mesli of iiis callow eaglets Hloop. 

"Men tnu.st die when all is Haid, o'cn the kite and glead 
know it, 
And llio iad'H father know it, and the lad, the lad 
too ; * 

It was n(!v<;r kept a secret, waters bring it and winds 
blow it, 
And he met it on the mountain — why then make 
ado ? " 



With that I Hpr(!ad IiIh white wingn, and Hwept across 
the w iter, 
Lit upon 1 III; hooded head, and it and all went down ; 
And they laugiied as they went und<!r, and I woke;, 
"the old man'rt daii^blcr,'* 
And looked acroHH the Hlopc nf grass, and at Cromer 
town. 



And I said, "Ts that the sky, all gray and silvci 
suite.! ? '♦ 
And I tliou{^ht» "Xs that tlie sea 'that lies so white 
and wan ? 
I have dreamed aw 1 rcniemb*»r : give me time — I wa« 
rcuvitc.'i 
Orcg to lif^v** / »t«J»*('y (•"'jurH^e — O, I fear 'ti« 
gono ! » 



IB Jt£Q UIESCA T IN PA CE. 

And I saicl, " Is this my heart ? if it be, low 'tit 
beating, 
So he Ues on the mountain, hard by the eagles* 
brood ; 
I have had a dream this evening, while the white and 
gold were fleeing, 
But I need not, need not tell it — where would be 
the good? 

•' Where would be the good to them, his father and 

his mother? 
For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to 

them still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smolders, who its dying 

red would smother. 
That gives what little light there is to a darksome 

hill?" 

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, 

But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 

What can wrinuiuo- of the hands do that which is 

ordained to alter ? 

He had climbed, had climbed the mountahi, ha 

would ne'er come down. 

l)Ut, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but 
love tliee ! 
O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed ! 
Fiom my breast I'd give the burial, pluck the down 
and spread above thee ; 
I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain 
head. 

Fare thee well, my love of loves I would I had died 
before thee ! 
O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I migh 
flow. 
Solemnly a]»proach the mountain, weep away my bein*, 
o'er thee, 
And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with 
snow I 



SVPPSl. A T THE MILL. 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. . 

Mother. Well, Frances. 

Jiyancex. "Wi^ll, good inotlicr ; liow are yow? 

31. Pill hearty, lass, but warm ; the weatlier'i 
vvarin : 
I think 'tis mostly warm on market days. 
I met with C4('()rge behind the mill : said he, 
" IVIother, go in and rest awhile." 

F. Ay, do, 

And stay to supper ; put your basket down. 

M. Why, now, it is not heavy? 

K Willie, man, 

Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no ! 
Some call good churning luck ; but, luck or skill. 
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet 
As if 'twas Christmas, So you sold it all ? 

31. All but Ihis i>at that I put by for George ; 
lie always loved my butter. 

F. That he did. 

M. And has your speckled hen brought oflF her 
brood ? 

F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told you ot, 
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. 

Child. And, Granny, they're so yellow. 
M. Ah, my lad, 

Yellow as gold — yellow as Willic^'s liair. 

G. They're all mine, Granny — father says they're 

mine. 

M. To think of that ! 

F. Yes, Granny, only think ! 

Why, father means to sell them when they're fat, 
And put the money in the savings b.ink, 
And all against our Willie goes to school : 
Kut Willie would not touch them — no, not he ; 
He knows that father would be angry else. 

6'. But T want one to play with — O, I want 
A little yellow duck to take to bed ! 



2I& SOPPER A T THE MILL. 

M. What I would you rob the poor olil luolhoi 

then ? 
H Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile ; 
Tis time I look up AVillie to liis crib. 

{Exit FKANCBSk 

[Mother sings to the infant.\ 

Playing on the virginals, 

Who but I ? 8:)e glad, sae free. 
Smelling for all cordials. 

The green mint and marjorie; 
. Set among the budtling broom, 

Kingeui) and daiVodilly, 
By my side I made him room : 

O love my Willie 1 

** Like me, love me, girl o' gowd,'* 

Sang he to my nimble strain ; 
Sweet his ruddy lips o'ertlowed 

Till my In-art strings rang again: 
By tlie broom, the boimy broom. 

Kingcup and dalTodilly, 
In my heart 1 made him room : 

O love my Willie I 

" Pipe and play, dear heart," sang h€^ 
"I must go, yet pipe and play ; 

Soon I'll ctune and ask of ihee 
For an answer yea or nay ;" 

And I waited till the Mocks 
Panted in yon waters stilly, 

And the corn stood in the shooki : 

love my Willie I 

I thought first when thou didst ooine 

1 wouhl wear the rinsr for thee, 
B^t the year told out its sum 

Ere again thou sat'st by me ; 



SUPPE.f A r Til p. MILL. *» 

Thou hadMt, naught to jihU that day 

By kiii;4(',ii)) aiul djiflodilly ; 
I B.'iiil iKjitlicr yfii nor iiuy : 

O love my Willie \ 

Enter Georgic. 

G. Woll, rnotlior, 'tia a fortriigljt now, or moi-eb 
S*«cc I set eyc8 ou you. 

M. Ay> G'or^c, rny dear, 

I rt«<;kori you've been Liiisy : bo Lavo wc. 

Q. And liow doofs lather ? 

M. llo^ctiiUirougli his work. 

But he growH Htiir, a litllo Htifl, my d< ar ; 
He's not so young, you kriow, by twenty years, 
As I am — not ho young ]>y twenty years, 
And I'm past «ixty. 

(x. Yet lie'H hale and Htout 

And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe ; 
And HecijiH to take a pleasure in his cows, 
And a prid(», too. 

M. And well he may, my dear 

(}. Give me tlie little one, he tires your arm 
He's such a kir-kin;^, crowing, wal<«'fiil rotrue, 
lie almost wears our lives out with his noii-;o 
Just at fjay-dawning, when we wish to sleep. 
What ! you young villain, would you elenen yoia* flirt 
In father's curls? a dusty father, sure, 
And you're as clean as wax. 

Ay, you may laugh ; 
But if you live a s<-veri y<;ars more or h(;, 
These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched 
With climbing after nest-eggs, 'i'hey'll go d<nvij 
As many rat-holes as ai-e round the mere ; 
And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, 
Ah your father did afore you, and you'll wade 
After young water-birds ; and you'll get bogged 
Setting of c-l-trapM, and you'll spoil your clothes, 
And come home torn and drl})ping : th«'n, you krio',« 
You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the stick, my lad \ 



40 SUPPER A T THE MiLL. 

Enter !<' ranges. 

F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe — 
How can you, George ? Avhy, he may be in heaven 
Before the time you tell of. 

M. Look at him : 

So earnest, such an eager pah- of eyes I 
'He thrives, my dear. 

F. Yea, that he does, thank God ! 
My children are all strong. 

M. 'Tis much to say ; 

Sick childreu fret their mothers' hearts to shreds, 
Aud do no credit to their keep nor care. 
Where is your little lass ? 

F. Your daughter came 

And begged her of us for a week oi- so. 

j\I. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she mighty 
For she can sit at ease and pay her way ; 
A sober husband, too — a cheerful man — 
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her j 
Yet she is never easy, never glad, 
75ecause she has not children. Well-a-day ! 
If she could know how hard her mother M'orked, 
Aiul what ado I had, and what a moil 
With my half-dozen ! Children, ay, forsooth. 
They bring their own love with them when they come, 
But if they come not there is peace and rest ', 
The pretty lambs ! and yet she cries for move : 
Why, the world's full of them, and so is heaven — 
They are not rare. 

G. No, mother, not at all ; 

But Haimah must not keep our Fanny long — 
She spoils her. 

M. Ah ! folks spoil their children now } 

When I was a young woman 'twas not so ; 
We made our children fear us, made them work, 
Kept them in order. 

G. Were not proud of them - 

Eh, mother ? 

M. I set store by mine, 'tis true. 

But then I had good cause. 



SUFFER AT THE MILL, 4, 

Q. My lad, d'ye hear ? 

Your Granny was not proud, l)y no means proud 1 
She never spoilt your father — no, not she, 
Nor ever made him «ing at hafvest-Lome, 
Nor at the forge, nor at tlie haker'w whop, 
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed 
Sick, and he crept up-stairs to share her broth. 

M. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, wha" 
more. 
Your father loved to hear you sing — he did. 
Although, good man, he could not tell one tuno 
From the other. 

1\ No, he got his voice from you , 

Do use it, George, and send the child to slee]). 

6r. What must I sing ? 

F. The ballad of the man 

That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. 

G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves 
I5ut, mother, put your sliawl and bonnet off. 
And, Frances, lass, I brouglit some cresses in : 
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs. 
And let us to supper shortly. 



My neighbor "White — we met to-day — 
Ho always had a cheerful way, 

As if he breathed at case ; 
My neighbor White lives down the gLidfl^ 
And I live higher, in the shade 

Of my- old walnut-trees. 

So many lads and lasses small. 

To feed them all, to clothe them al^ 

Must surely tax his wit ; 
I see his (hatch when I look out, 
His branching roses creep about, 

And vines half smother it 



#9 SUPPER A T THJ£ MILL. 

There white-haired urchins climb his eaves^ 
Aiidlittle wHtch-fii-es heaj) with leaves, 

Aud milky filberts hoard ; 
And there his oldest daughter stands 
With downcast eyes and skillful hands 

Before her ironing-board. 

Slie comforts all lier mother's days, 
And with her sweet obedient ways 

She makes her labor light. 
So sweet to hear, so fair to see I 
O, she is much too good for me, 

That lovely Lettice White I 

'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool 1 
With that same lass I went to school -- 

I then was great and Avise ; 
She read upon an easier book, 
And I — I never cared to look 

Into her shy blue eyes. 

And now I know they must be there. 
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 

That will not raise their rim : 
If maids be shy, ho cures who can ; 
But if a man be shy — a man — 

Why then, the worse for him \ 

My mother cries, " For such a lad 
A wife is easy to be had 

And always to be found ; 
A finer scholar scarce can be, 
And for a foot and leg," says she, 

** lie beats the country round 1 

" jjy handsome boy must stoop his head 
To clear her door whom he would wed.'* 

Weak praise, but fondly sung I 
" O mother I scholars sometimes fail — 
And what can foot or leg avail 

To him that wants a tongue ? * 



SUPPUR A 7 THE MILL. 

When by lier ironing-board I sit, 
Hor little sisters round rae flit, 

And bring me forth their store ; 
Dark cluster grapes of diisty-blue, 
And small sweet apples, bright of ha© 

And crimson to the core. 

But she abideth silent, fair ; 
All shaded by her flaxen hair 

The blushes come and go ; 
I look, and I no more can speak 
Than the red sun that on her cheek 

Smiles as he lieth low. 

Sometimes the roses by the latch, 

Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch. 

Come saiUng down like birds ; 
When from their drifts her board I clear, 
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 

The shyly uttered words. 

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice Whit© 
By daylight and by candlelight 

When we two were apart. 
Some better day come on apace, 
And let me tell her face to face, 

** Maiden, thou hast my heart.** 

How gently rock yon poplars high 
Against the reach of i)rinirose sky 

vVith heaven's pale candles stored ! 
She sees them all, sweet Lettice Whit« { 
I'll ev'n go sit again to-night 

Beside her ironing-board I 



Why, yon young rascal ! who would think it, now I 
No sooner do 1 stop than you look up. 
What would you have your poor old father do? 
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. 



44 SUPPER A T THE MILL 

M Hg heard tlie Lacon sputter on tlie fork. 
And hoard his mother's s(ej) aeross the lloor. 
Where did you got tliat song ? — 'tis new to inf. 
\ G. I bought it of a pedler. 

Jf. Did you so ? 

Well, you were always for tlie love songs, Georga 

I^. ISly dear, just lay his head upon your arm, 
And if you'll paee and sing two minutes nu^re 
lie needs must sleep — his eyes are lull of sleep. 

G. Do you sing, mother. 

J"] Ay, good mother, do ; 

"ris long since wo have hoard you. 

jr. Like enou*h ; 

I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads 
I used to sing to slee[) e'ertop nic now. 
What should I siiig for ? 

G. Why, to pleasure us. 

Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit 
And I'll pace gently with the little one. 



[Mother sinffs.] 

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 

My old sorrow wakes and cries. 
For I know there is dawn in the far, far north. 

And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet tleect.^ the snow-field spreads. 

And th.e icy founts run free. 
Ami the bergs begin to bow their heads, 

And plunge, and sail in the sea. 



o my lost love, and my own, own love, 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in (he world above 

Where they listen for words from below t 
Nay, I spoke once, :ind 1 grieved thee sore, 

1 remember all that I said. 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more 

Till the sea gives up her dead. 



SCHOLAR AMD CARPENTLR. 4ft 

TlidH (li<l.sl, Hct (liy foot, oil llio Hliip, aiul Hall 

To ilio ice-Hcl(lH and the hiiow ; 
Tlioii w'crt sad, for lliy lovd did naught avail, 

And (Ik; cikI I coidd nol, know ; 
How (ioidd I toll I slioidd lovo IIkh) to-day, 

Whom (,li:it day I lie-Id not dear? 
Ifow (!;)iild I know 1 slionld lovo tlico away 

When 1 did not love thee aiitsar ? 



We Hliall walk no more througli tlic sodden plain 

With tli(! laded hentH o'ersprctad, 
AVc shall st;ind no nior(* hy tlui Kc(!thing main 

While the dark wi'aek diives o'erhead ; 
Wo shall part no more in tlio wind and the raiti, 

Where thy last fanjwell was taid : 
JJiit perhaps I shall me(!t tlieo and know thcc agai* 

When the sea gives up her dead. 

7*! Ash^ep at last, and time lio was, Indeed. 
Tmiii hack the cradl<!-(piilt, and lay liim in ; 
And, mother, will you pleaae to draw your chair P 
The supper's ready. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER 

WiriLR ripening eorn grew thick and dcep^ 

An<l here and there men stood to reap, , 

One morn I put my heart to nlce|», ^ 

And lo tli(! huHfS T took my way. » 

The gohlliiudi on a thistle-lu-ad 
Stood Hcatt(!ring seedlets while she fed ; 
The wrens their pr<;tty gossip Bj)read, 

Or joined " random roundelay. ^ ^, 



M SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER, 

On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, 
And tliick (lie wnysido cloA'crs grew j 
The feeding bee had much to do, 

So fast did honey-drops exude : 
She sucked and murmured, and was gono^ 
And lit on other bh)oms anon, 
The while I learned a lesson on 

The source and sense of quietude. 

For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, 
Or bleat of lamb Avilhin its fold, 
Or cooing of love-legends old 

To dove-wives make not quiet less ; 
Ecstatic chirp of winged thing. 
Or bubbling of the water-spring, 
Are sounds that njore than silence bring 

Itself and its delightsomeness. 

"While thus I went to gladness fain, 
I had but walked a mile or twain 
Before my heart Avctke up again, 

As dreaming she had slept too late \ 
The morning freshness that she viewi»A 
With her own meanings she endued. 
And touched with her solicitude 

The natures she did meditate. 

" If'quiet is, for it I wait ; 
To it, ah I let me wed my fate, 
And, like a sad wife, supplicate 

My roving lord no more to ties ; 
If leisure is — but, ah ! 'tis not — 
1'is long past praying for, God wot 
The fasliion of it men forgot, 

About the age of chivalry. 

" Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; 
She craves no time for Avork deferred | 
Her wings are not to aching stirred 
Providino^ for her helpless ones. 



Fair is the leisure of the wlicjit ; ' 
All night th<! <l:iin|)s nl)Oiit it fleet ; 
All (lay it basket, li in the heai, 
And grows, and whispers orisons. 

•• Grand is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads hirdi, 
And after harvest fears not dearth, 

I5ut goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dint 
Dread is the leisure up above 
The wliile He sits whosi^ name is Lovft, 
And waits, as Noah did, fur the dove. 

To wit if she would fly to liim. 

** Ho waits for us, while, housclcsh thing!^ 
We heat about with bi'uised wirigs 
On the dark floods and water-s[)rings, 

'I'he ruined woi"ld, the desulatcs sea ; 
With open windows fi'oni IIk; prime 
All night, all day, lie waits sublime. 
Until the fulliHiss of th(! time 

Decreed from His eternity. 

" Where is ouu leisure ? — Give as rest. 

Where is the (piiet w(( possessed ? 

Wc must have had it once — were blest 

With peace whose ])hantom8 yet entice, 
Sorely the mother of maid<ind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we still prove some yearnings blind 

Inherited from Paradise." 

" Hold, heart ! " T (iried ; "for trouble slo»j)S \ 
I hear no sound of aught that wee])S ; 
I will not look into thy deeps — 

I am afraid, T am afraid ! " 
" Afraid ! " she saith ; " and yet 'tis true 
That what man dreads he still should view— • 
Should do the thing he fears to do, 

And storm the ghosto in and^uscade." 



48 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

*' What good ? " I sigh. " Was i-eason meant 
To straighten branches that are bent, 
Or sootlie an ancient discontent, 

The instinct of a racedetlironed? 
Ah ! donbly should tliat instinct go 
Must tlie fonr rivers cease to flow, 
Nor yiekl those rumors sweet and low 

AVherewith man's life is undertoned." 

"Yet had I but the past," she cries, 
" And it was lost, I would arise _ 
And comfort me some other wise. 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place, 
Once dropped among us, seem to chase 

Rest with their 2)rophet-visitings. 

" The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be set 
Plainly before him with no let 

Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 
But ne'ertheless by much too old 
Not to perceive that men withhold 
More of the story than is told, 

And so infer a mystery, 

«If the Celestials daily fly 
With messages on missions high, 
And float, our masts and turrets nigh. 

Conversing on Heaven's great intents \ 
What wonder hints of coming things, 
Whereto man's hope and yearning clings, 
Should drop like feathers from their wings 

And give us vague jsresentiments ? 

" And as the waxen moon can take 
The tidal waters in her wake 
And lead them round and round to break 
Obedient to her drawings dim ; 



SCHOLAR AFD CARPENTER. 49 

So may the raovcmeiits of liis raincl, 
The first (Ireut Fatlier of niiiiikind, 
Aifeet with answering movements blind, 
And draw the souls that breathe by Him 

'* We had a message long ago 
That like a river peaee should flow, 
And Eden bloom again below. 

We heard, and we began to wait ; 
Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined lot, 
And waiting for they know not what 

They strive with yearnings passionate. 

** Regret and faith alike enchain ; 
There was a loss, there comes a gain ; 
We stand at fault betwixt the twain. 

And that is veiled for which we pant. 
Our lives are short, our ten times seven ; 
We think the councils held in heaven 
Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven 

Work peace amongst the militant. 

**Then we blame God that Sin should be S 
Adam began it at the tree, 
*The woman whom Thou gavest me ;' 
And we adopt his dark device. 

long Thou tarriest ! coine and reign, 
And bring forgiveness in Thy train, 
And give us in our hands again 

The apples of Thy Paradise. 

" Far-soeing heart ! if that be all, 
The happy things that did not fall,** 

1 sighed, ■' from every coppice call ; 
They never from that garden went. 

Behold their joy, so comfort thee, 
Behold the blossom and the bee, 
For they are yet as good and free 
As when poor Eve was innocent 



(C SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER.. 

"But reason tlms : ' If we sank low, 
If the lost garden we forego, 
Each in his day, nor ever know 

But in our poet souls its face ; 
Yet we may rise until Ave reach 
A height untold of in its speech, 
A lesson that it could not teach 

Learn in this darker dwelling place.' 

" And reason on : * We take the spoil ; 
Loss made us poets, and the soil 
Taught us great patience in our toil, 

And life is kin to God through death. 
Christ were not One with us but so, 
And if bereft of ITim we go ; 
Pearer the heavenly mansions grow, 

His home, to man that wandereth.* 

'* Content chee so, and ease thy smail.'* 
With that she slept again, my heart. 
And I admired and took my jjart 

With crowds of happy things the while \ 
With open velvet butterflies 
That SAvung and spread their peacock eyes^ 
As if they cared no more to rise 

From off their beds of chamomile. 

The blackcaps in an orchard met. 
Praising the berries Avhile they ate : 
The finch that flew her beak to whet 

Before she joined them on the tree 
The Avater mouse among the reeds — 
His bright eyes glancing black as beads^ 
So happy Avith a bunch of seeds — 

I felt their gladness heartily. 

But I came on, 1 smelt the hay, 
And up the hills I took my Avay, 
And doAvn them still made holiday, 
And walked, and Avearied not a Avhit t 



SCHOLAR ANJn CARPENTER. 81 

But ever with tlie ];uie I went 
Until it dropped vvith .steep descent, 
Cut deep into the rock, a tent 
Of maple branclfes roofing it. 

Adown the rock small runlets wept, 
And reckless ivies leaned and crept, 
And little spots of sunshine slept 

On its brown steeps and made tl.>.cm fair \ 
And broader beams athwart it shot, 
Where martins chee])ed in many a knot, 
For they had ta'en a sandy plot 

And scooped another Petra there. 

And deeper down, hemmed in and hid 
From u])per light and life amid 
The swallows gossiping, I thrid 

Its mazes, till the di])ping land 
Sank to the level of my lane : 
That was the last hill of the (-liain, 
And fair below I saw the pl:wn 

That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. 

Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, 
As satiate with the boundless play 
Of sunshine on its green array. 

And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue 
To keep it safe rose up behind, 
As with a charmed ring to bind 
The grassy sea, where clouds might find 

A place to bring their shndows to. 

1 said, and blest that pastoral grace, 
"How sweet thou art, thou sunny place t 
Thy God approves thy smiling face :" 

But straight my heart put in her word i 
She said, " Albeit thy face I bless, 
There has been times, sweet wilderness, 
When I have wished to love thee less, 

Such pangs thy smile administered." 



6iit, lo ! 1 roac'luHl a flikl of wheat, 
And by its gate lull c-kar and swoet 
A worknian sang, wliile at his feet 

Pla\ed a young child, aH life and stir— » 
A three years' child, witli rosy lip, 
Who in the sorg had jiartnership, 
Made hap|)y with each falling chip 

Dr<)pj)ed by the busy carpenter. 

Tills, reared a new gate for tht old, 
And loud tlie tuneful measure rolled, 
But stopped as I cr.jue up to hold 

Some kindly talk of passing things. 
Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien , 
Of all men's faces, calm or keen, 
A better I have never seen 

In all my lonely Avanderings. 

And how it was I scarce can tell, 

We seemed to please each other well ; 

I lingered till a jioonday bell 

Had sounded, and his task Avas done. 
An oak had screened ns from the heat ; 
And 'neath it in the standing wheat, 
A cradle and a fair retreat. 

Full sweetly slept the little one. 

The workman rested from his stroke. 
And manly were the words lie spoke, 
Until the smiling babe awoke 

And prayed to him for milk and food. 
Then to a runlet forth he went. 
And brought a wallet from the bent, 
Atul bade me to the meal, intent 

I should not quit his neighborhood. 

"For here," siid he, "are bread and bew, 
And meat enough to make good cheer: 
Sir, eat with me, and have no fear, 
For none upon my work depend, 



SCHOLAR AMD CARPENTER BB 

^^aviiig tills clilkl ; and I may say 
That I am rich, for every day 
I put by somewhat ; tliereforo stay, 
And to such eating condescend." 

We ate. The child — child fair to see— » 
Began to cling about his knee, 
And he down leaning fatherly 

Received some softly-i»ratlled prayer ; 
He smiled as if to list were balm, 
And with his labor-hardened j)alm 
Pushed from the baby-forehead calm 

Those shining locks that clustered there 

The rosy mouth made fresh essay — 

"O would he sing or would ho play ? " 

1 looked, my thought would make its way ••< 

" Fair is your child of face and limb, 
The round bluer eyes full sweetly shine." 
He answered me with glance benign — 
*' Ay, Sir ; but he is none of mine. 

Although I set great store by him." 

With that, as if his heart was fain 
To open — nathless not complain — 
He let my quiet questions gain 

His story : " Not of kin to me,** 
Repeating ; " but asleep, awake, 
For worse, for better, him I take, 
To cherish for my dead wife's sake, 

And count him as her legacy. 

** 1 married with the sweetest lass 
That ever stepped on meadow grass ; 
That ever at her looking-glass 

Some pleasure took, some natural care j 
That ever swept a cottage floor 
And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er 
Till eve, then watched beside the door 

Till her good man should meet her thera 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

" But I lost all in its frcsli prime ; 
My wife fell ill before her time — 
Just Jis the bells began to chime 

One Sunday morn, liy next day's ligH 
Her little babe was born and dead, 
And she, unconscious what she said. 
With feeble hands about her spread, 

Sought it with yearnings iniinite. 

"With mother-longing still beguiled, 
And lost in fever-fancies wild, 
She piteously bemoaned her child 

That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days she sighed to me, 
'I cannot rest until I see 
My pretty one I I think that he 

Smiled in my face but yesterday.* 

"Then she would change, and faintly try 

To sing some tender lullaby ; 

And * Ah I' would moan, 'if I should dle^ 

Who, sweetest babe, would cherish theet* 
Then weep, ' My pretty boy is grown ; 
With tender feet on the cold stone 
He stands, for he can stand alone, 

And no one leads him motherly.* 

** Then she with dying movements slow 
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : 
*IIis feet are bar?, he must not go 

Unshod : ' and as her death drew on, 
* O little baby,' she would sigh ; 
*My little child, I cannot die 
Till I have you to slumber nigh. 

You, you to set mine eyes upon.' 

" When she spake thus, and moaning lay^ 
They said, * She cannot pass away, 
So sore she longs : ' and as the day 
Broke on thehills, I left her sida 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Mourninc^ along tliis lane I went : 
Some traveling folk had pitched their tent 
Up yonder : there a woman, bent 
With age, sat meanly canopied. 

"A twelvemonths' child was at her side ; 

* AVhose infant may that be ? ' I cried. 
^His that will own him,' she replied ; 

'His mother's dead, no worse could be.* 

* Since you can give — or else I erred-— 
See, you are taken at your word,' 
Quotii I : ' Tliat child is mine ; I heard, 

And own him 1 Rise, and give him mCr' 

" She arose amazed, but cursed me too } 
She could not hold such luck for true, 
But gave him soon with small ado. 

I laid him by my Lucy's side : 
Close to her face that baby crejit, 
And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept f 
Then, while upon her arm he slept, 

She passed, for she was satisfied. 

" I lov-ed her well, I wept her sore, 
And when her funeral left my door 
I thought that I should never more 

Feel any pleasure near me glow ; 
But I have learned though this I had, 
Tis sometimes natural to be glad. 
And no man can be always sad 

Unless he wills to have it so. 

" Oh, I had heavy nights at first, 
And daily wakening was the worst : 
For then my grief arose, and burst 

Like something fresh upon my he*d ; 
Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, 
I was not pleased — I wished to go 
Mourning adown this vale of woe» 

For all my life uncomforted. 



SCNOLAH AXD CAK VENTER. 

** f <jjru(1i:^('(1 inysi'lf tlu' HL;,lils()me air, 
That m.ik»'s man t'lnH>rfiil unaware ; 
AN'luMi rDniloit. caMU", 1 did not care 

'I\) takt> it in, to feel it stir ; 
And yot (.uxl took with nio His |)lan. 
And now for my a|)pointod s])au 
I think 1 am a liappior jnan 

For liaving wod and wi'pt for lior. 

" nooausc no tiatnral tio remains, 

On this small thinii: T spond my gains ; 

(Jixl makos mo Io\o him for my pains, 

And hinds mo so to wlmlosomo oaro * 
I wonld not losi> from my jKVSt life 
That happy yoar, that happy wife I 
Yot now 1 wago no useless strife 

With feelings blithe and debonaic 

"T have the eourage to be gay, 
Although she lieth lapped away 
UndiM" the daisies, for I say, 

* Thou wonldst be glad if thou eouldst ioe ,' 
My constant th(Uight makes matiifest 
1 havt' not w hat 1 love the best, 
13ut T must thank God for tlic rest 

"While I hold heaven a verity." 

« 

ITo rose ; upon his shoulders set 

The child, and while with vague regret 

AVe parted, pleased that we had met, 

^ly heart did with herself confer; 
^Vith wludesoine shame she did rej^ent 
Her reasonings idly eloquent, 
And said, " 1 might be more content • 

But God go with the car|)entor.'* 



THE STAR'S MO/^UMEN'T. W 

THE STAU'S MONirMKNT. 

X TUB CONCLUDINO PAltT <)K A J^ISOoUKHIC ON' KAUik 

[If tlrlnlcs.'l 

Ir tlicro bo memory in tlic; world to come, 

Tf (li()UL;Iit recur to bomk 'jiiin<i,s silenced here, 

l^lieii shall (ho dec*)) lie;ir(- 1)e no ioniser diunl). 
Hilt find expression in th;it Imppicr spliere J 

It sliiill not be denied their utmost Hiim 
Of love, to s[)(*ak witliout or fiiiilt or fear, 

But titter to the Inirp witli (!li:in<;('S sweet 

Words that, i'orbi<hleti Btill, tlien heaven wore incom« 
pleto. 

[ITe speahs.'^ 

Now let us talk about the ancient days. 

And things wliicli liappened long before our birtb : 

It is a pity to lament tlial- pi-ais(* 

Should bi' no slia<low in llu; Irain of worth. 

AVhat is it, Madam, that your heart dismays? 
Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? 

Think rather of the work tlian of the jn'aise ; 

Come, we will talk about the ancient days. 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said ho): 

I will relate his story to you now, 
While through the branches of this applc-treo 

Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow ; 
While every flower hath on its breast a l)ee, 

And every bii-d in stirring doth e-ndow 
The grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide 
As ships droj) down a river with the tide. 

For telling of his tal(! no fitter place 

Than this old oicliard, sloping to the we«t ; 

Through its pink dome of blossom I can traoo 
Some overlying a/ure ; for (he rest. 

These flowery branches round us inteilaco } 



B8 THE STAk'S MOhWME^T. 

The ground is liollowi'd like a mossy nest \ 
Who talks of fame while tlie religious spring 
Offers the incense of her blossoming ? 

There was a Poet, Matlam, once (said he). 
Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, 

Took to his heart the hope that destiny 
Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, 

That by the ])ower of his sweet minstrelsy 

Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gaii\ 

And charm some grovolors to uplift their eyes 

And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. 

"Master, good e'en to ye ! " a woodman said, 

Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. 

*This hour is fine" — the Poet bowed his head. 

"More fine," he thought, " O friend 1 to me appears 

The sunset than to you; finer the si)read 

Of orange luster through these azure spheres, 

Where little clouds lie still, like fiocks of sheep, 

Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. 

" O finer far ! What work so high as mine, 
Interpreter betwixt the world and man, 

Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, 
The mystery she >vrai)S her in to scan ; 

Her unsyllabic voices to combine, 

And serve her with such love as poets can ; 

With mortal Avords, her chant of praise to bindj 

Then die, and leave the poem to mankind ? 

« O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired 1 
Early and late my heart apjieals to me. 

And says, * O work, will — Thou man, be fired 
To earn this lot, — she says, 'I would not be 

A worker for mine own bread, or one hired 
For mine owx profit. O, I would be free 

To work for others ; love so earned of them 

Should be my wages and my diadem 



THE STASIS MONUMENT. Ok 

"'Then whoii I dlod I should not fiill,' says she, 
.'Like drooping (lowci-s that no man noticeth, 
B It like .a great bnuicli of some stately t ree 

Rent in a tetnpcst, and flung down to death, 
Thick with green leafage — so that piteously 

Each passer by tliat ruin shuddereth, 
And saith, 'J'he gap this branch hath left is Avide ' 
The loss thereof can never be supplied.' " 

But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, 
Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, 

AikI saw two slender branches that did grew, 
And from it rising sjn-ing and flourish high ; 

riieirtops were twined together fast, and, lo, 
Their shadow crossed tlie path as he went i)y — 

The shadow of a wild rose and a brier, 

And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. 

[n sooth, a lyre I and as the soft air played. 
Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. 

" O emblem meet for me ! " the Poet said ; 
" Ay, I accept and own thee for my right ; 

The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, 

Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light ' 

Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain, 

And, supple, it will bend and rise again. 

" Tliis lyre is cast across the dusty way. 

The common path that common men jiursuej 

I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay, 
Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew. 

And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. 
Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, 

That 'neath men's feet its image still may be 

While yet it waves about them, living lyre, like thee I * 

But even as the Poet spoke, behold 

Tie lifted up his face toward the sky ; 
The ruddy snn dipt under the gray wold. 



60 THE STAR'S MOh'UMENT, 

Tlis slindowy ]yre was gone ; and, passing by 
The Avoodnian lifting up his ^;lioars, was hold 

Their temper on tliose branehes twain to try, 
And all their loveliness and leafage sweet 
Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. 

** Ah ! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, 

"That for myself I coveted but now, 
Too soon, niethinks, thou hast been false to me ; 

The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow." 
Then straightway turned he fiom it hastily, 

As dream that waking sense will disallow ; 
And while the highway heavenward paled apace^ 
He went on westward to his dwelling-place. 

He went on steadily, while far and fast 

The summer darkness dropped upon the world, 

A gentle air among the cloudlets passed 

And fanned away their crimson ; then it curled 

The yellow ])oppies in the Held, and cast 
A dimness on the grasses, for it furled 

Their daisies, and SAvej^t out the ])ur}ile stain 

That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. 

He reachoii his cit)'. Lo ! the darkened street 
AVhere he abode was full of gazing crowds ; 

He heard the mulfled tread of many feet ; 
A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. 

" What mark ye there," said he, " and wherefore 
meet ? 
Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds ; 

It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered s^iars — 

What lies behind it but the nightly stars?" 

Then did the gazing crowd to liim aver 

They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was 
hid ; 
For that in sooth an old Astronomer 

Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, 
Frighted, and fain with others to confer, 

Tliat he had cried, " O sirs ! " — and upward bid 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT, 61 

Them gaze — " O «irs, a liglit Is qucnclietl afar ; 
Look u|), my iuaHlc'i\s, we liavo lu.st a .star I" 

The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes 
Flew ujnvard, wlicre a gleaming sisttirhood 

Swam in the dewy lieaven. The very skies 
Were mutable ; for all-amazed he stood 

To see that ti'uly not in any wise 
lie could behold them as of old, nor could 

His eyes receive the whole whercol" lie wot, 

But when he told them over, one was not. 

While yet he gazed and pondered reverently. 

The tickle folk began to move away, 
" It is but on(f star less for us to s(!e ; 
And wliat does one star signify V " quotli they ; 
" The heavens are full of them." " Jiut ah ! " said he, 

" That star was l)right while yet she lasted," " Ay 1 " 
They answered : " praise; her, Poet, an' ye will : 
Some are now shining that are brighter still." 

" Poor star ! to be disparaged so soon 

On her withdrawal," t'lHi^ the Poet sighed ; 

" That men should miss and straight deny her noon 
Its brightness !" Hut the ))eoi)l(! in their pride 

Saidj " How are we beholden 'i 'twas no boon 
She gave. Iler nature 'twas to shine so wide. 

She could not choose but shine, nor could we know 

Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." 

^ The Poet answered sadly. " That is true I " 
And then he thought upon unthankfulncss ; 

While some went homeward ; and the residue, 
Refle<!ting that the stars are numberless, 

Mourned that mail's daylight hours should be so few, 
So short the shining that his path may IjIcsb : 

To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips. 

And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. 

But he, the Poet, could not rest content 
Till he had found that old Astronomer J 



62 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Therefore at miduiglit to his house he went 
And prayed ]iiin be his tale's interpreter. 

i\:id yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent, 
Hearing the marvel ; yet lie sought for her 

That was awanting, in the hope her face 

Once more might till its reft abiding-place. 

Then said the old Astronomer : " My son, 

I sat alone upon my roof to-night ; 
I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun 

To fringe the edges of the western light ; 
I marked those ancient clusters one by one, 

The same that blessed our old forefather's sight ■ 
For God alone is older — none but lie 
Can charge the stars with mutability : 

"The elders of the night, the steadfast stains, 
The old, old stars which God has let us see, 

That they might be our soul's auxiliars, 

And help us to the truth how young we be — 

God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars 
And a little clay being over of them — lie 

Had made our world and us thei'cof, yet given. 

To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. 

" But ah ! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen 
The death of light, the end of old renown ; 

A. shrinking back of glor}' that had been, 
A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. 

How soon a little grass will grow between 
These eyes and those apjjointed to look down 

Upon a world that was not made on high 

Till the last scenes of their long empiry ) 

"To-night that shining cluster now despoiled 
Lay in day's wake a ])erfect sisteihood ; 

Sweet was its light to riie that long had toiled, 
It o-loamed and trembled o'er the distant wood , 

Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, 
Cool twilight up the sky lur way made good ; 



THE STAR'S Monument. 63 

/ saw but not believed — it was 80 strange — 
That one of those same stars liad suffered change. 

"The darkness gathered, and methought she spread. 
Wrapped in a reddish liaze that waxed and waned ; 

But notwithstanding to myself I said — 
* The stars are changeless ; sure some mote hath 
stained 

Mine eyes, and her fair glory minish6d.' 
Of age and failing vision I complained, 

And thought ' some vapor in the lieavens doth swim 

That makes her look so large and yet so dim.* 

" But T gazed round, and all her lustrous peers 
In her red presence showed hut wan and white, 

For like a living coal beheld through tears 

She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light : 

Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears, 
Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night ; 

Like one who throws his arms up to the sky 

And bows down suffering, hoj)eless of reply. 

" At length, as if an everlasting Hand 
Had taken hold upon her in her place, 

And Bwiftly, like a golden grain of sand, 
Through all the deep infinitudes of space 

Was drawing her — God's truth as here I stand — 
Backward and inwanl to itself ; her face 

Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more 

Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. 

•* And she that was so fair, I saw her lie, 

The smallest thing in God's great firmament, 

Till night was at the darkest, and on high 

Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent { 

I strained, to follow her, each aching eye. 
So swiftly at her Maker's Avill she went ; 

I looked again — I looked — the star was gone, 

And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." 



84 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

"Gone ! " said tlio Poet, " and al)out to be 
Forgot Ion : O, how sad a lato is liors ! " 

" How is it sad, my son V" all rovcionlly 
Tlie old nun answered ; " tliouuh she niinisters 

No longer willi Iter lamp to n\e :uid tliee, 
tSlie has {'uUilled her mission. CJod transfers 

Or dims her ray ; yet was she Most as bright, 

For all her life was spent in giving light." 

'*ITer mission she fuHilled assuredly," 
The Poet eried : " but, O uidiappy star ! 

None i-raise and few will be:u* in memory 

The name she went by. O, from far, from far 

Conies down, methinks, her mournful voiee to me 
Full of regrets that men so thankless are." 

So said, he told that old Astronomer 

All that the gazing crowd had said of her. 

And he went on to speak in bitter wise, 
As one who seems to t(>ll another's fate, 

l>ut feels that nearer meaning underlies. 
And points its sadness to his own estate : 

" If sueh be the reward," he said with sighs, 
" Envy to earn for love, foi- goodness hate — 

If siu'h be thy reward, hard ease is tiiine 1 

It had been better for thee not to shine. 

" /f to refleet a light that is divine 

jMakes that whieh doth reflect it better eeen. 

And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 
'Twere surely better it had nevti been : 

It had been better for her not to shixe, 
And for me xot to sino. lietter, I ween. 

For us to yield no more that radiance briuht. 

For them, to lack the light than sci>rn tlie light." 

Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he) ; 

And then he paused, and sighed, and turned tj 
look 
ITpon the lady's downcast eyes, and see 

How fast the honey bees in settlinir shook 
Those apple blossoms on Uer from the tree j 



r/Z/i" S T.I A" S JI/OA UMF.r^T. (It 

Ho watched her 1)iiHy fiiigcrrt us iliey took 
AikI s]ii)|)('(I llic, knot ted tlin>fi<l, ;ui(l (liouglit hoW 

miu'h 
Ho would liavo given tliiit li.'iiid toliold — to touch. 

At Iriigtli, us Huddeiily l)e(%)tne ii\v;iro 

Of th'iH long |»riiiHe, hIic lifted up lier face, 

And lie willidi'cw his (^ycH — HJie looked so fnir 
And (rold, lie tiiouglit, in her uiKionseiouH grace. 

" Ah ! little! dreams she of the restless (tare," 

I[(! thought, "that tnakes my heart to throb apaca 

Tliougli we this nu»rning part, the knowledge sends 

No ilirill to her calm [ndse — we are but i''JtiENJ>8." 

Ah ! turn^t eloek fh<} thouglit), I woidd thy hand 
Wen; hid behind yon towering niiiple-ti'ees 1 

Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stniid — 
Dark shadow — fast advancing to my knecH , 

Ail ! foolish heart (ho thought), tliat vaiidy planned 
Jiy feigning gladness to arrive; at ease ; 

Ah 1 painful hour, yet pain t,o think it en<ls ; 

I must remember that we are but friends. 

And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, 

Tn swecjt regr(itful tones that lady said : 
*' It seemeth that the fame you would forego 

The Poet whom you tell of coveted ; 
liut T would fain, methinks, his story know. 

And was \w. love(rj:"' s:iid she, "or w 's Ik; wed P 
Anti had he friends V" " ()n(! friend, ])erliaps," aaid 

he ; 
* i5 It tor the rest, I pray you let it be." 

Ah ! little bird (he thought), most ])atient bird, 
Ureasting thy speckhtd eggs the long day tlirough, 

liy so much as my reason is preferred 

Above thine instinct, I my work would do 

IJetter than thou dost thine, 'J'hou liast not stirred 
This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, 1 sue; 

For alike patience to wear thi-ough tlietic hours — 

Bird on thy nest among the apple-llowera 



ee TffE STAR 5 ilfCVir^VENT. 

I will not speak — I will not speak to thee, 
JNIy star ! and soon to bo my lost, lost star. 

The sweetest, iirst, that ever shone on nie, 
ISo high above me and beyond so far ; 

I can forego Ihee, but not bear to see 

]\Iy love, like rising mist, thy luster mar: 

That Avere a base return for thy sweet light. 

Shine, though I never more shall see that thou an 
bright. 

Never ! 'Tis certain that no hope is — none f 
No hopi' for me, and yet for thee no fear. 

The hardest })art of my hard task is done ; 
Thy calm assures me that I am not dear ; 

Though far and fast tlie rapid moments run, 
Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear » 

Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart 

She is. I am her friend, and I depart. 

Silent she liad been, but she raised her face ; 

"Anl will you end," said she, *' this balf-tol<i» 
tale ? " 
" Yes, it were best," he answered her. *' The place 

Where I left off Avas where he felt to fail 
His courage, jMadam, through the fancy base 

That they who love, endure, or work, mi'y rail 
And cease — if all their love, tlie works they wrought, 
And their endurance, men have set at naught." 

** It had been better for me not to sing," 
JMy Poet said, " and for her not to shine ; ** 

But him the old man answered, sorrowing, 
"My son, did CjcA who made her, tlie Divine 

Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright ring 
IFe cast her like some gleamitig alniandine, 

And set her in her place, bv^girt with ravs, 

"Say unto her * Give light,' or say 'Earn* praise?'* 

The Poet said, "lie made her to give light." 

" My son," the old man answered, " blest are such, 
A blessed lot is theirs ; but if each night 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. i 

Maiikiiid has praised her radiance — inAsmuob 
As praise had never made it wax more bright, 

And cannot now rekindle with its touch 
Her lost elTidgence, ic is nanglit. I wot 
Tliat praise was not her blessing nor her lot.** 

"Ay," said the Poet, " I my words abjure 
And I re[)ent mo that I uttered them ; 

But by her light and by ifs forfeiture 
She shall not pass Avithont her rcquiejn. 

Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure ; 
Though I should be forgotten, p.he, lost gem, 

Shall be remembered ; though r.he f-ought not fam^ 

It shall be busy vvitli her beauteous name. 

** For I will raise in her brighl memory, 
Lost now on earth, a lasting nonumcnt, 

And graven OJi it shall recorded be 

That all her rays to light mankind were spent ; 

And I will sing albeit none hcerk'th me, 
On her exemplar being still in'ent : 

While in men's sight shall stand ».he record thus-— 

* So long as she did last she lightsjd us.' " 

So said, ho raised, according to. Ms vow, 

On the green grass, where oft his tovvnsfolks met, 

Under the shadow of a leafy bough 
That leaned toward a singing rivulet, 

One pure white stone, waereon, like crown on brow, 
The image ot the vanished star was set ; 

And this wi^s graven on the ))ure white stone 

In golden letters — " V/iirii: khk uved suk suoni.'' 



o^ 



Madam, I cannot give this story well — 
My heart is beating to another chimG .* 

My voice must needs a difTercnt cadence swell 
It is yon singing bird, which all the time 

Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel 
My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lorerw 
rhyme 



68 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

'JTlie sweetness of tliat passionate lay excel f 

soft, O low ber voice — " J cannot telL" 

TliG old man — ay, he spoke, he was not hard \ 
" Slie was Ills joy," he said, *' his comforter. 

But he would trust me. I was not debarred 
Whale'er my heart approved to say to her." 

Approved ! O torn and tempted and ill-si arred 
And bre.ikinuj heart, approve not nor demur J 

It is the serpent that betruileth thee 

"With "God doth know" beneath this apple-trea 

Tea, God doth know, and only God doth know. 
Have pity, God, my spirit trroans to Thee I 

1 bear ihv enrse ])riineval, nnd I go ; 

But heavier than on Adnin f.ills on me 
Mv tillage of the wildeiness ; for, lo I 

'l leave behind tlie womnn, and I see 
As 'twere the gates of Kdcn closing o'er 
To hide her from my sight for evermore. 

\E.e ffjoeaZs.] 

I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, 
To let the songbird work me such unrest ; 

If I bre:ik off again, I ])ray you chide, 

For m(»rning ileeteth, v>itii my tale at best 

Half told, 'i'hat whitestone. Madam, gleamed besid* 
'I'he little rivulet, and all men pressed 

To read tlie lost one's story trnced thereon, 

The goldiMi legend — " While she li\ ed she shone,* 

And, INladam, Avhen the Poet heard them read, 
And '•hildron S|iell the letters softly through, 

It may l)e that he felt at heart some need. 
Some craving to be thus rejnembered too ; 

it \w\\ be thnt he wondeivd if indeed 

tie must die wholly when he parsed from view { 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. fiJ 

It may be, wislied, when death his eyes made dim, 
That somo kiud hand would raise auch stone for hin 

But shortly, as iliere comes to most of up, 

There came to him the need to quit his homo ; 

To tell you why were simply Imzardous. 

What Huid I, Madam ? — men were made to roam 

My moaning is. It haili hi-en always thub : 
Yhey are atliirst for mountains and sea foam ; 

ITjirs of this world, wliiit woniler if ).erK'hanoe 

They long to see their grand iuheritauec? 

Ila left his city, and went forth to teach 
Mankind, his jteors, tlio hidden harmony 

Thiit underlies (Jod's disco ds, and t(» re.ieh 
And touch the master-string that like a sigh 

Thillls in their souls, a-< if it wonM bcM^ech 
Some hand to sound it, and to satisiy ^ 

Its yeaniing for expression • hut no woi'd 

Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. 

\IIe, IhinkB^ 

I know that God is good, though evil dvvells 
Among us, and doth all tliin'j,s holiest share; 

That there is joy m heaven, wliile yi't our knells 
Sound for the souls wliicli lie has summoned theit 

That painful love unsatislicd liiuh spells 

Jilarned by its smart to soothe its fellow's care : 

But yet this atom cannot in the whole 

forget ilsoll — it aches a separate souL 

But, Madam, to my Poet I return. 

Willi his sweet radiuures of woven wordu 
He made their rude untutored hearts to burn 

And melt like gold refined. No brooding birdf 
Sing better of ihc love that do'li SMJouni 

llid ill the nest of home, which softly girds 



rO THE STAFS MOhWMENT 

The beating heart of hie , iiiid, strait though it be^ 
Ib struitness Letter than wide liberty. 

He taught them, and they learned, but not the less 
Renuiined unconscious whence that lore they drew, 

But dreanuM^ that of their native nobleness 

Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew ; 

His glorious maxims in a lowly dress. 

Like seed sown broadcast sprung, in all men's view. 

The sower, passing onward, was not known, 

And all men reaped the harvest as their own. 

It may bo, Madam, that those ballads sweet, 
Whose rhythmic measures yesterday we sung, 

AVhich tinui and changes make not obsolete, 
l^ut (as a river bears down blossoms Hung 

ITpon its breast) take with them while they fleet — 
It nuiy be fiom his lyre that first they si)rung : 

l^ut who can tell, since work survi\"6th fame? — 

llie rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. 

Ho worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust — 
So long he wandered sowing Avorthy seed, 

Watering of wayside buds that were adust, 
And touching for the common ear his reed — 

So long to wear away the cankering rust 

That dulls the gold of life — so long to plead 

AVith sweetest music for all souls o])]>ressed, 

That he was old ere he had thought of rest. 

Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, 
To that great city of his birth he came, 

And at its gates be paused witl. wondering laugh 
To think how changed were all ins thoughts of fame 

Bince first he carved the gulden epitaph 
To kee]> in memory a worthy name, 

And thought forgetfulnoss had been its doom 

But for a few bright letti'rs on a tomb. 



o 



The old Astronomer bad long since died ; 
The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed ; 



THE STAR'S MONUMEi^T, II 

Strii!i2fO were tlie domes lliat rf)sc! on every side ; 

Str.ii)ii,(! l"()Uiit;iiiis on liis \voii<lci-iiig vision burst J 
The men of yL'slenlMy (heir business ])lie(l ; 

No face was left that lie had known at lirbt ; 
And in the city ij^ai'dcns, lo ! he sees 
The saplings tliat he set ai-e stately trees. 

Upon the {^rass beneath their welcome shade, 
BehoM ! he marks the fair white monument. 

And on its face the golden words displayed, 
For sixty years their luster have not spent ; 

lie sitteth by it and is not afraid. 
But in its shadow he is well content ; 

And envies not, though bright tluiir gleamings are 

The golden letters of the vanished star. 

lie gazeth up ; exceeding bright appears 

Tliat golden legend to his ag(!d eyes, 
For they are da//Jed till tiiey HIl with tears, 

And his lost Youlh doth like a vision rise ; 
Sh(^ saith to hiui, " In all these toilsome years, 

What liast thou won by work or enterprise ? 
What hast thou won to make amcuids to thee, 
i\3 thou didst swear to do, for loss of me ? 

"O man ! O white-haired man !" tTie vision said, 
"Since we two sat beside this momiment 

Life's clearest hues are all evanish(*'d, 

The golden wealth, thou hadst of me is spent ; 

The wind liath swept thy Howcrs, their leaves are shed, 
The music is played out that with ^hee went." 

"Peace, peace ! he cried ; "T lost thee, but, in truth 

There are worse losses than the loss of youth." 

Ke said not what those losses were — but I — 
But I must leave them, for the tim(ub-aw8 near. 

Some lose not ont;v joy, but memory 

Of how it felt : not love that was so dear 

Lose only, but the steadfast certainty 

That once they had it ; doubt comes on, then fear, 



rt THE STAR'S MONUME^t. 

And after that despondency. I wis 

The Poet must have meant such loss as thift 

But while he sat and pondered on his youth. 
He said, "It did one deed that doth nmain. 

For it preserved the memory and the truth 
Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, 

But shine in all men's thouglits ; nor sink forsooth, 
And be forgotten like tlie summer rain. 

O, it is good that man should not forget 

Or benefits foregone or brightness set I " 

He spoke and said, " My lot contenleth me ; 

I am right glad for this her worthy fame ; 
That which was good and great I fain would see 

Drawn M'ith a halo round what rests — its name." 
This while the Poet said, behold, there came 

A workman Avith liis tools anear the tree, 
And when he road the words he paused awhile 
And pondered on them with a wondering smile. 

And then he said, "I ]n'ay you, Sir, what mean 
The golden letters of this monument?" 

In wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou been 
A dweller near at hand, and their intent 

Hast neither hoard b}'- voice of fame, nor seen 
The marble earlier?" "Ay," said he, and leant 

Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh. 

And say it was a marvel^ and pass by. 

Then said the Poet, "This is strange to me.** 
But as he mnsQd, with trouble in his mind, 

A band of maids a])proa('hod him leisurely, 
Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind; 

And of their rosy lips requested ho, 

As one that for a doubt would solving find, 

The tale, if tale there were, of that Avhito stone, 

And those fair letters — " While she lived she shone." 

Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. 

" O, Sir,"-saith one, " this monument is old ; 
But we have heard cur virtuous mothers say 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 71 

That by their mothers thus the tale was told . 
A Poet made it ; journeying then away, 

He left us ; and though some the meaning hold 
For other than the ancient one, yet we 
Receive this legend for a certainty : — 

"There was a lily once, most purely white. 
Beneath the sliadow of these boughs it grew ; 

Its starry bh)ssom it iiiudosed by night, 
And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. 

He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight 
Until a stormy wind arose and blew, 

And when he came once more his flower to greet 

Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. 

"And for his beautiful white lily's sake, 

That she might be remembered where her scent 

Had been right sweet, he said tliat he would make 
In her dear memory a monument ; 

For she was purer than a driven flake 

Of snow, and in her grace most excellent ; 

The loveliest life that death did ever mar, 

As beautiful to gaze on as a star." 

"I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her, 
" And I am glad that I have heard your tale.* 

With that they passed ; and as an inlander, 
Having heard breakers raging in a gale 

And falling down in thunder, will aver 
That still, when far away in grassy vale, 

He seems to hear these seething waters bound. 

So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. 

He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought 
And thought, until a youth came by that way ; 

And once again of him the Poet sought 
The story of the star. But, well-a-day I 

He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraughli 
The sense thereof can no man surely say ; 

For still tradition sways the common ear. 

That of a truth a star did disappear 



f« THE STAKS MONUMENT. 

*'But tliey who look benealh the outer shell 
That warps tlio ' kernel of the ])eeple'8 lore, 

Hold THAT for superstition ; and they tell 
That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore 

fn this old city, where it so befell 
That one a Poet loved ; that, furthermore. 

As stars above us she was pure and good, 

And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. 

"So beautiful they were, those virgins seven, 
That all men called them clustered stars in song, 

Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : 
But woman bideth not beneath it long ; 

For O, alas ! alas I one fated even, 

When stars their azure deeps began to throng. 

That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim, 

And all their lustrous shining waned to him. 

"In 8umn\erduslc she droo])ed her head and sighed 
Until what time the evening star Avent down. 

And all the other stars did shining bide 
Clear in the luster of their old renown, 

And then — the virgin laid her down and died : 
Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown. 

Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, 

And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." 

•* A mournful talc, in sooth," the lady saith : 
"But did he truly grieve for evermore?" 

"It may be you forget," he answereth, 
"That this is but a fable at the core 

O' the other fable." " Thou oh it be but breath,** 
She asketh, "was it true ?" Then he, '< This lor* 

Since it is fable, either way may go ; 

Then, if it please you, think it might be so." 

•* Nay, but," she saith, " if I had told your tale. 
The virgin should have lived his home to bless 

Or, must she die, I would have made to fail 
His useless love." "I tell you not the lesp." 

He sighs^ " )>ecause it was of no avail ; 



His heart the Poet would not <lispo888ea 
Thereof. But let us leave the fable now, 
My Poet heard it with an aching brow." 

And he made answer thus : "I thank thee, yoaib j 

Strange i.s thy story t j these aged eara. 
But I bethink me thon hast told a truth 

Under the guise of fable. If my tears, 
Thou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth, 

Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, 
So new thou shouldst be deemed as newly seen, 
For men forget that thou hast ever been. 

** There was a morning when I longed for fame, 
There was a noontide when I passed it by. 

There is an evening when I think not shame 
Its substance and its being to deny ; 

For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name 
Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die j 

Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, 

They change the deeds that first ennobled it 

"O golden letters of this monument I 

O words to celebrate a loved renown 
Lost now or wrested, and to fancies lent, 

Or on a fabled forehead set for crown t 
For my departed star, I am content. 

Though legends dim and years her memory drown j 
For what were fame to her, compared and set 
By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet ? ** 

** Adieu I " the Poet said, " my vanished star. 
Thy duty and thy happiness were one. 

Work is heaven's best ; its fame is sublunar : 

The fame thou dost not need — the work is don«j 

For thee I am content that these things are ; 
More than content were I, my race being run. 

Might it be true of mo, though none thereon 

Sh'^uld muse regretful — ' VV^hile he lived he shone.* ^ 



H rjffjs stah's monumj^i^t. 

So said, the Poet rose and went his way, 

And that same lot be proved whereof he spakft 

Ma*Uini, my ytory is told out ; the day 

Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake 

The morning. That wiiicli endeth call a lay, 
Sung after pause — a motto in the hreak 

Between two chapters of a tale not new, 

Nor joyful — but a common tale. Adieu I 

And that same God who made your face so fair, 
And gave your woman's heart its tenderness. 

So sint'ld the blessing lie imjdanted there, 
Tliat it may never turn to your distress. 

And never cost you trouble or despair, 

Nor, granted, leave the granter comfortless } 

But like a river, bh>st where'er it flows, 

Be still receivinir while it still bestows. 



» 



Adieu, he said, and ]>auscd, while she sat mute 
III the soft shallow ol". the apple-tree ; 

The tikylark's song rang like a joyous flute, 
TIjo brook went jnnttluig past her restlessly : 

She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute: 
It was the wind thil sighed, it was not she : 

And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, 

We cannot tell, for none interpreted. ■ 

Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, 
They might suit not the moment or the spot. 

She r(>se, and laid her work aside the while 
Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot ; 

She looked upon him with an almost smile, 
And held to him a hnnd that faltered not. 

One moment — bird and l)ro(»k went Avarbling on. 

And the wind sighed again — and he was gone. 

So quietly, as if she heard no more 

Or skylark in the azure overhead, 
Or water slipping past the cn^ssy shore. 

Or wind that rose in si<jhs, and sigtiing fled-* 
So quietly, until the alders hoar 



A DEAD YEAR 7i 

Took him beneath them j till tho downward spread 
Of i)lanes ongnH'od him in tiieir leafy seas 
She stood beneath lier rose-Uu.slied a]>plo-tree8. 

And then she stooped toward the mossy grass, 
And gathered nj) her work and went her way ; 

Straiglit to tliat ancient turret she did pass, 

Aii^d startle back some fawns that wei-e at play. 

She <lid not sigh, she never said " Alas ! " 

Although he was her friend ; but still that day, 

Where elm and hornbeam s])read a towering dome, 

She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. 

And did she love him ? — what if she did not? 

Then homo was still the home of hapjnest years ; 
Nor thought was exiled to p;;rtake liis lot, 

Nor heart lost courage through foreboding fears; 
Nor echo did against her secret ])lot, 

Nor music her betray to painful tears ; 
Nor life become a dream, and sunslune dim. 
And riches poverty, because of him. 

But did she love him ? — what and if she did ? 

Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand. 
Nor show the secret v/aters that lie hid 

In arid valleys of that desert land. 
Love has no sj^ells can scorching winds forbid, 

Or bring the help which tarries near to hand. 
Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyea 
That gaze up dying into alien skies. 



A DEAD YEAR. 

I TOOK a year out of ray life and story — 
A dead year, and said, *' I will hew thee a torxkb \ 

•All the kings of the nation lie in glory ;' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old ; 
PaiLted with cinnabar, and rich with gold 



I A t>hAD YEAR. 

"Silent they rest, in solemn salvntory, 
Sealed from llio mctli and the owl and the flitter 
mouse — 
Each Willi his name on his brow. 

* All the kings of ihi' nations lie in glory, 
Everv one in his own house : * 

I'hen why not tliou ? 

" Year," I said, " thou shalt not lack 
Bribes to bar tliy romiiiii- baek ; 
Doth old Egypt wear her best 
In the chambers of hor rest ? 
Doth she take to her last bed 
Beaten goKl, and glorior.s red ? 
Envy not I for thou wilt wear 
In the dark a shroud as fair ; 
Golden with the sunny ray 
Tliou wnthdrawest from my day ; 
Wrought upon with colors fine 
Stolen from this life of mine : 
Like the dusty Libyan kings. 
Lie with two wide-open wings 
On thy breast, as if to say, 
On these wings hojie tlew away; 
And so housed, and thus adorned, 
Not forgotten, but not scorned. 
Let the dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door ; 
And the dust for ages fall 
Tn the creases of thy pall ; 
And no voice nor visit rudo 
Break thy sealt'd solitude." 

I took the year out of my life and story. 
Hie dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee v. 
tomb 1 

* All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' 
Cased in cedar, and sin t in a sacred gloom ; 
But for the sword, and the scepter, and diadem. 

Sure thou didst reign like theui." 



A DEAD YEAR. 't 

So 1 laid hoT with those tyrants old and ho&ry 

According to my vow ; 
For I 8.11(1, "The kin,ti;s of tlie nations lie in glory, 

And BO tihalt tliou 1 " 

« Hock," I said, "fliy rlhs are strong. 

That I hniig tlico guard it long ; 

Hide tlio light from buried eyes — 

Hide it, lost tlic dead arise." 

" Year," 1 said, and tnrned away, 

" 1 am free of tliec this day ; 

All lliat wo two only know, 

1 forgive and 1 forego, 

So tliy face no more I meet 

In the field or in the street." 

Thus we parted, kIig and T ; 
Life hid death, and put it hy ; 
Life hid death, and said, "Be free I 
I have no more need of tliee." 
No more need I O mad mistake. 
With repenlance in its wake ! 
Ignorant, and rash, and blind, 
Life had left the grave behind ; 
But had locked within its hold. 
With the spices and the gold, 
- All she had to keep her warm 
In the raging of the storm. 

Scarce the sunset Lloom was gon^ 

And the little stars outshone, 

Ere the dead year, still and stark. 

Drew me to her in the dark ; 

Death drew life to come to her, 

Beating at her sepulcher, 

Crying out, " How can I part 

With the best share of my heart? 

Lo, it lies upon the bier, 

Captive, with the buried year. 

O my heart I " And I fell proo^ 

Weeping at the seah^d stone ; ^ 



A DEAD YEAH. 

** Toar aTnonc: the shades," I said, 
"Since 1 live, ami tl.ou art dead. 
Lei tny oai)tive lieart be tree 
Like «a bird to fly to me." 
And I stayed some voice to win," 
But none answered from witliin ; 
And I kissed the door — and niffht 
l>ee}»ened till the stars waxed brighS 
And 1 saw tliem set and wane, 
And the world turned green again. 

"So," I whispered, "open door, 
I must tread this palace floor — 
Seal(>d palace, rich and dim, 
Let a narrow sunbeam swiin 
Alter ine, and on me spread 
While I look upon my dead; 
Let a little warmth be free 
To come after ; let me see 
Through the doorway, when I sit 
Looking out, the swallows flit, 
Settling not till daylight goes ; 
Let me smell the wild white rose, 
Smell the woodbine and the may ; 
Mark, upon a sunny day, 
Sated from their blossoms rise 
Honey-bees and butteiflies. 
Let me hear, O ! let me hear. 
Sitting by my buried year, 
F'lnches chirping to their young, 
And the little noises flung 
Out of clefts where rabbits play, 
Or from falling water-spray ; 

•* And the gracious echoes woke 

By man's vork : the woodman's stroki^ 

Shout of slu'pherd, whistling blithe, 

And the whetting of the scythe. 

Let this be, lest shut and firled 

tVom tJie weU-belovM world, 



A DEAD YEAR. tt 

t forjret her yfarnitip^s old, 
And lior troubles inuiiifold, 
Strivings sore, suhiiiissioiis meet, 
And my pulse no longer beat, 
Keeping time and bearing ))art 
Willi llio palso oi" her great heart. 

"So 1 swing open, door, and shade 
Take me ; I am not aCiaid, 
For the time will jiot by long ; 
Soon 1 shall have waxen strong — • 
Strong enough my own to win 
Fronx the grave it lies withm." 

And I entered. On her bier 
Quiet lay the buried year ; 
1 sal down whei'e I could see 
Life without and sunshine free. 
Death within. And I between, 
Waited my own heart to wean 
From the shroud that shaded hek 
III the rook-hewn sepuleher — 
Waited till the dea(l should say, 
** Heart, be fr e of nn.^ this tlay ;* 
Waile(] with a patient will — 

And 1 WAII BliTWEliN TIIKM S'llIX. 

I take the year back to my life and story, 
Tlie dead year and say, " I wdl share in thy loiuli, 

'All the kings of the nations lie in glory ;' 
Cased in ctsdar, and shut in a sacred gloom ! 
They reigned in ihoir lifetime with scepter and 
dia(b'm, 

Hut ihou excellesl them ; 
For life d(,.,i make thy grave her oratory. 

Ami the crown is stiil on thy brow ; 
•All the kings of ilu^ Uiit:unB lie ui fjflory, 

Ajad. to duKt tboQ." 



REFLECTIONS. 

Written for tfie Portfolio Sooleti/, Juli/, 1862. 

W)OKINO OVKK A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELIX 

What change has made the pastures sweet 
And reached the daisies at my feet, 

And cloud that wears a golden hem ? 
This lovely world, the hills, the sward — 
Tliey all look fresh, as if our Lord 

But ye^terday had finished them. 

And hero's the field with light aglow ; 
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, 

And how its wet leaves trembling shine t 
Between their trunks come through to me 
The morning sparkles of the sea 

Below the level browsing line. 

I see the pool more clear by half 
Than pools where other waters laugb 

Up at the breasts of coot and rail 
There, as slie passed it on her way, 
I saw refiected yesteiday 

A maiden with a milking-paiL 

There, neither slowly nor in haste, 
One hand upon her slender waist. 

The other lifted to her pail, 
She, rosy ni the morning light, 
Among the water-daisies white. 

Like some fair sloop appeared to muI 

Against her ankles as she trod 
rho lucky buttercups did nod, 

I le:uu'd uj^on the gate to see : 
rhe sweet thing looked, but did not speiik, 
A dimple came in either cheek, 

And all my heart was gone from ma 



jfhtn, as 1 linger-od on the {^ate, 
And she came up like coming fate, 

I saw my picture in her oycK — 
Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes. 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that growa 

Among white-headed majesties 

I said, " A tale was made of old 
That I would fain to thee unfold ; 

Ah I let me — let mo tell (he tale.* 
But high she held her comely head ; 
"1 cannot heed it now," she said, 

"For carrying of the milking-paiL 

She laughed. What good to make ado . 
I held the gate, and she came through, 

And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had fled ; 
It rested on my heart instead, 

Reflected when the maid was gone. 

With happy youth, and work content. 
So sweet and stately on she went, 

Right careless of the unfold tale. 
Each step she took I loved her more, 
And followed to her dairy door 

The maiden with the inilking-paiL 



n. 

For hearts where wakened love doth lar^ 
Hov/ fine, how blest a thing is work ! 

For work does good when reasons fail-« 
Good ; yet the ax at every stroke 
The echo of a name awoke — 

Her name is Mary Martmdale, 

Pm glad that echo was not heard 
Anght by other nien : » bird 



JiEFLECTIdNS. 

Knows doubtless what his own note* t«Il] 

And 1 know not ; but I can say 
1 ft'lt as shame-faced all that day 

As if i'olks heard her name ri^ht welL 



'»' 



And when the west began to glow 

I wen* — 1 could not choose but go — 

To that same dairy on the hill ; 
And while sweet Mary moved about 
Within, I came to her without, 

And leaned upon the wmdow-silL 

Tlie garden border where I stood 

Was sweet with ].inks and southern-wood, 

I spoke — her answer seemed to fail ; 
I smelt the j>inks — I could not see ; 
The dusk came down and sheltered me, 

And in the dusk she heard my tale. 

And what is left that I should tell ? 
1 begged a kiss, I pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips did long decline , 
But yet I tlunk, I think 'tis true, 
Tliat leaned at last into the dew, 

One little instant they were mina 

O life ! how dear thou hast become : 
She laugijcd at dawn, atul I was dumb. 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair shine the bhie that o'er her spreads, 
Green be the pa-^tiires where she treatis, 

The maideu with the mukiuir-'tiui I 



THE LE TTER L, 

TIIE LETTER 1^ 

ABSENT. 

Wis sat on giasay slopes that meet 
With sudden dip the level strand ; 

The trees hung overhead — our feet 
Were on the sand. 

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, 
We sunned ourselves in opc^n light, 

And felt such Apiil airs as Ian 
The Isle of Wight ; 

And snu'lt the wall-flower in the crag 
Whereon that dainty waft had fedf, 

Which made the bell-liung cowslip wag 
Her delicate liead ; 

And let alighting jackdaws fleet 
Adown it opened winged, and pass 

Till they could touch with outstretched f* 
The warnic;d grass. 

The happy wave ran up and rang 
Like service bells a long way oflf, 

And down a little freshet sprang 
From mossy trough, 

And splashed into a rain of spray, 
And fretted on with daylirrht's loM) 

Because so in;?ny bhic-bells lay 
Leaning across. 

Blue martins gossiped in the snn, 

And pairs of chattering daws flew by, 

Aiul sailing brigs rocked softly ot 
In company 



THE LETTER L, 

Wild cherry boughs above us spread 
The whitest shade was ever seen, 

And fliekor, flicker, came itnd fled 
Sun-spots between. 

Bees mnrmnred in the milk-whito bloom. 
As babes will sigh for deep content 

When their sweet hearts for peace make room, 
As given, not lent. 

And we saw on : we said no word. 
And one was lost in musings rare, 

One buoyant as the waft that stirred 
ITer shining hair. 

His eyes were bent npon the sand, 
Unfathonied deeps within thcra lay; 

A slender rod was in his hand — 
A hazel spray. 

Her eyes were resting on his face, 
As shvlv glad bv stoaltli to glean 

Impressions of his manly grace 
And guarded mien : 

The mouth with steady sweetnew^et. 

And eyes conveying unaware 
Tlie distant liint of some regret 

That liarbored there. 

She gazed, and in the tender flush 
That made her face like roses bloini| 

And in the radiance and the hush, 
ll«r thought was shown. 

It was a happy thing to sit 

So near, nor mar his reverie ; 
She looked not for a part in il^ 

So meek was she. 



THE LETTER L. «7 

Bat it was solace for her eyes, 

And for lier lieart, tliat yearned to him, 

To watcli apart in loving wise 
Those musings dim. 

Lost — lost, and gone I TTie Pelham woodtf 
Were fnll of doves that cooed at ease ; 

The orchis filled her purple hoods 
For dainty bees. 

He heard not ; all the delicate air 
Was fresh Avith falling water-spray ; 

It mattered not — ho was not there, 
But far away. 

Till with the hazel in his liand, 

Still drowned in thought, it thus hefell ; 

He drew a letter ou the sand — 
The letter L. 

And looking on it, straight there wrought 

A ruddy flush about his brow ; 
His letter woke him : absent thought 

Rushed homeward now 

And, half-abashed, his hasty touch 

Effaced it with a tell-tale care, 
Aa if his action had been much. 

And not his air. 

And she? she watched his open palm 
Smooth out the letter from the sand, 

And rose, with aspect almost calm, 
And tilled her hand 

With cherry bloom : and moved away ' 

To gather wild forget-me-not. 
And let her errant footsteps stray 

To one sweet spot. 



TNE LETTER L. 

Ab if she coveted the fair 

White lining of the !silv<;r weed, 

And cuckoo-pint that shaded thei'e 
Empurpled seed. 

She had not feared, as I divine. 

Because she had not hoped. Ala* I 

The sorrow of it I for that sign 
Came but to pass ; 

And yet it robbed her of the right 
To give, who looked not to receive^ 

And made her blusli in love's despite 
That she should grieve. 

A shape in while, she turned to gaze ; 

Her eyes were sliaded with her hand. 
And half-way up the winding ways 

"We saw her stand. 

Green hollows of the fringed cliff, 
lied rocks that under waters show, 

Bhie reaches, and a sailing skiff, 
Were spread below. 

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, 
Perhaps to think ; but who can tell 

How heavy on her heart must lie 
The letter L 1 



She came anon with quiet grace ; 

And " What," she murmured, '* silent yet ! ' 
He answered, " 'Tis a haunted plac^ 

And spell beset. 

*0 speak to us, and brepk the spell I * 
" The spell is broken,'* she replied. 

" I crossed the running Ir/ook, it fell. 
It ooiild not bide. 



THE LETTER L. flft 

•And T have brourrlit a bmldinjr world 

Of orchis spires and daisios rank, 
And forny plumes but liall" uncurled, 

From yonder bank j 

"And I sliall weave of them a crown, 
And at the well-head hiuneli it free. 

That so the brook may float it down. 
And out to sea. 

** There may it to some EncjUsh hands 
From fa!«"y meadow seem to come j 

The fairyest of fairy huidsi — 
The laud of home." 

"Weave on," he said, and as she wove 

We told how currents in tiie deep. 
With branches from a lemon grove. 

Blue bergs will sweep. 

And messaa^e?? from shipwrecked folk 

Will navigate the moon-h-d mam, 
And painted boards of splintered oak 

Their port regain. 

Then floated out by vagrant thought 

My soul beheld on torrid sand 
The wasteful water set at naught * 

Man's skillful hand, 

And suck out gold-dust from the box, 
And wash it down in weedy whirls, 

And split the wine-keg on the rocks. 
And lose the pearls. 

** Ah 1 why to that which needs it not,*" 

Methought, " should costly things be given? 

flow much IS wasted, wrecked, forgot^ 
On this Hide lieaveu I" • 



K) rffF T.F. TTER L, 

So nins'.ni; ilid mine oars awake 

To m;iiilcu loncvs of sweet reserve, 
AikI iiKuily speech that tjeenied to make 
'i'ho steady curve 

or lips tiiat uttered it defer 

Tlu'lr guard, and soften for the thought ; 
Slio hsteni'd, and his talk with her 

Was fancy fnui<rlit. 

"There is not nincli in liberty** — 
With (l()Ml)trMl pauses he began ; 

And said to her and said to me, 
" There was a man — 

** There was a man who dreamed one night 
That his dead father came to him, 

And said, when tire was low, and light 
Waa burning dim — 

•• * Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride^ 
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam ? 

Sure home is best I ' The son replied, 
'I have no home.' 

** * Shall not I speak ? * Lis father said, 
^Who early chose a youthful wife, 

And worked for her, and with her led 
My happy life. 

** * Ay, I will speak, for I was young 
As thou art now, when I did hold 

The prattling sweetness of thy ton|" l 
Dearer than gold ; 

** 'And rosy from thy noonday sleep 
Would beai thee to ndniirinc^ kin. 

And all thy pretty looks would keep 
My heart within. 



THR LE TTER Z. 

* 'Then after, 'mid thy yonng allica — 
For thee ainhition ilnshcd my brow — 

I coveted the schoolboy prize 
Far more than thou. 

* ' I thouglit for thco, I thought for all 
My gainesotno imps that round me grow 

The dews of blessing licavicst fall 
Where care falls too. 

** ' And I that sent my boys away, 

In youthful strength to earn their bread. 

And died before the hair was gray 
Upon my head — 

" * I say to thee, though free from oare, 

A lonely lot, an aimless life, 
Tlie crowning comfort is not there — 

Son, take a wife.' 

** ' Father beloved,' the son replied, 
And failed to gather to his breast, 

With arms in darkness searching wide. 
The formless guest. 

** * I am but free, as sorrow in, 
To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk ; 

And free, as sick men are, 1 wis. 
To rise and walk. 

* * And free, as poor men are, to buy 

If they have naught wherewith to pay » 
Nor hope the debt, before they die 
To wipe away. 

*• * What Vails it there are wives to win, 
And faithful hearts for those to yearn, 

Who find not aught thereto akin 
To make return ? 



ms LET TEX L. 

•"Shall lio t;iko nuu'li who littlo gives, 

Ami dwolls in spirit far away, 
WIuMi sho that, in liis prcsonco lives, 

Doth never stiny, 

*" But, wakinix, guiiloth as lioseetns 
Tlio hapj^v house in oriler trim, 

And teuils her babes; and, sleeping, dreams 
(.)!" them and him V ^ 

** ' O base, O cold,"* — ■while thus he ppake 
Tlie droam broke off, the vision iled; 

lie earriod on ids spoeeli awake, 
And sighing said — 

•* ' 1 hat! — all, hap]>y man I — I had 
A preeions jcwid in my broast, 

And while 1 kept it 1 was gl;ui 
At work, at rest 1 

•• • Call it a heart, and call it strong 
As U[»ward stroke of oagle's wing ; 

Tlten call it weak, you shall not wrong 
Tho beuting thing. 

•"In tangles of the jutigle reed, 

Whoso iieats are lit with tiger eyes. 

In slnpwreek drifting with the weed 
'Neath rainy skios, 

•"Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, 
At danger gazed with awed delight. 

As if sea would not drown, I ween, 
Nor sirpent bite. 

•* ♦ I had — ah. hnppy ! but 'tis gone. 
The prieeless jowol ; one eame by. 

And saw and stood awhile to ecu 
With curious cj-e. 



rm LETTER I 

"And wished for it, and faintly siiiiled 
From undi'i- hishes black as doom. 

With Htibllc sweetness, tender, mild, 
That did iihnne 

«<*The perfect f:ute, and shed on it _ 
A charm, half feeling-, half Hnrprise, 

And brim with dreams^the exquisite 
Brown blessed eyes. 

«**"Was it for tliis, no more but this, 
I took and lai<l it in her h:ind, 

By diin[»leH rule<l, to hint submisa. 
By frown unmanned? 

«* ' It was for this —and O farewell 

The fearless foot, the present mind, 
And steady will to breast the swell 
And face the wind ! 

«*'I gave the jewel from my breast, 
She played with it a little while 

As I sailed down into the west, 
Fed by her smile ; 

«« < Then weary of it — far from land, 

"With sighs as deep as destiny, 
She let it drop from her fair hand 
Into the sea, 

« ' And watched it sink ; and I — and V 
What shall I do, for all is vain? 

Ko wave will bring, no gold will buy, 
No toil attain ; 

**Nor any diver reach to raise 
My jewel from the blue abyss ; 

Or could they, still I should but praiM 
Their work amiss. 



THE LETTER L. 

" * Thrown, tlirown a'.vay ! But I love yet 
The fair, fair hand which did the deed 5 

That wayward sweeti>ess to forget 
Were bitter meed. 

* * No, let it lie, and let the wave 

Roll over it for evermore ; 
Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave • 

The sea her store. 

** * My heart, my sometime hap])y lieart , 
And O for once let me com])lain, 

( must forego life's bct(cr jjart — 
Man's dearer gain. 

*^* 1 worked afar that I might rear 
A ))»^:>ceful home on English soil ; 

t labonnl for the gold and gear — 
I loved my toil 

'" Forever in mv spirit s]ialce 

The natural whisper, "Well, » twill bo 

7Vl\on loving wife and children break 
Their bread with thee I " 

" * The gathered gold is turned to dross, 

The wife hath faded into air, 
My heart is thrown away, my loss 

I cannot spare. 

** Not spare nnsated thought her fool — 
No, not one rustle of the fold, 

Nor scent of eastern sandalwood. 
Nor gleam of gold ; 

•" Nor quaint devices of the shawl. 
Far less the droo))ing lashes meek ; 

Tlie gracious ligure, lithe and tall. 
The dimpled cheek ; 



THE LKTTER I. • 

■* And all tlio woikUi's of lier eyes, 

And K\v(M't c.ii trices ol" Iut air, 
Allx'it, iiiili,t;iiaiit rcaHon cries. 
Fool ! iiave a care. 

** ' l'\»()I ! join iiol, madric'RH to miKtake ; 

Thou kiiowt'Ht slio loved tlieo not a whit ; 
Only that hIk; thy heart might break — 

8h(j wanted it, 

** ' Oidy tlio conquered tliliif^ to cTinin 
80 fast that iK>ne niij^'ht set it fre*', 

Nor other woman t lu're might reign 
And comfort thee, 

«•' llohhed, r()l.h(Ml of lifci's illuHionrt sweet ; 

Love dead oiitnide her chewed <h)ur, 
Anil paHsioii faintint? at lier feet 

To wake no moro ; 

*** What canst ihou give that uidiuown bride 
Whom tiiou didwt work for in the waste, 

Kr<^ fafiul love was born, and cried — 
Was dead, ungracnjd V 

" 'No more but fliis, tlie partial care, 
The natural kindness for its own, 

The trust that waxetli unaware. 
As wortli is known : 

*** Observance, and com|)lac(!nt thought 

lndidgen<, and th(i honor due; 
That many another irian has brought 

WIio brought love too. 

«**Nay, then, forlnd it. Heaven I* he Bftid, 
'The saintly vision fades from mo; 

O bands and chains I I cannot wed — 
I am not free.' " 



•»rt THE LETTER L 

W\\}\ tTiat lio raisod liis fnoe to view ; 

" WIj,\( tlnnk y»Mi.'' nskiiio, " gf my tal<? ' 
And was ho riolit (o lot llio dow 

Of morn ox halo, 

** And ImidoMod in X\\o uocMitidc sun, 
Ti)o ixrvtoful sliado of liomo torogo — 

Could ho bo riixht — T Jisk as one 
Who fain would know?" 

Wo s|)oko to hor and spi^ko to me , 
Tho rohol roso-huo dyod lior ohook ; 

Thi' \vov(Mi orown lav on hor knoo ; 
Sho would not spoak. 

And T with douhfful panso — nvcitie 
To lot oooasiou iliiff awav — 

1 answorod — " if his oaso wore worse 
Than word can sav. 

"Tnno is a hoalor of su-k hoarts, 

A'm\ wonion havo hotMi known to choo«t 

With purposo to allay thoir smarts, 
Ami toud ihoir bruiso, 

**Thosp for tbomsolvos. Contont to Sfive, 
In thoir own lavish love complete, 

Taking- for solo priM'ojiativo 
Thoir tondanoo swoot 

••Suoh moetino: in thoir diadom 
Of oro\vnii«<r love's of lu real tiro, 

Himsolf ho robs who robboth them 
Of thoir ilosira 

"Tlioroforo tho man who. dreaming, crie^ 
A'jainst his lot that cnonsojijir^ 

I jnd<j:(> him h«)nost. and iloeide 
That ho was wrono;. " 



THE LETll-.R r. M 

■^Wlicn T iiiii jmlj^cd, 'ill, iiiM V my f:i(,(i,* 
He \vliis|Mi( (I, " ill lliy codi! \n\ \vm\ \ 

Bo t.li(ni Itoili jii<l<;(i iuid julvocute." 
Tlicn (iinicd, he H;ii(l — 

" F:iir wc'ivcr ! " (oiidliiiifj;, wliilci Iki hjioUc 
'l'ii(> WDVrii (TOW II, (he wt'.'iviii^ lllllld, 

' And do yoii (liiH decree i<'V(>ke, 
Or iniiy it. Hl;iiid V 

**'riiis fiieiid, you ever lliiiil< lier rijdil, — ■ 
Siie is iiol, w roii;j;, (lien ? " Sid'l. mid loW 

riio lillle (i-einMiiiu^ word look /light ; 
tJho .iiisw'orcd, " No." 



)> 



I*imi:mii;nt 

A meadow wTmmm* (Ik LriaHH was (le«ip, 
Kicli, H'liiarc, and f^olden (,(» (,lio vicw^^ 

A Ix'lt of i'lrriH wilJi Uivel Mwcep 
About it grow. 

Tho Riin l)oa,t down on it, ilio lino 

Of Hliailo was (',l(!ar IxMioat.li tlio trcoB ; 

Tlierc, l)y a eliiHtoring oglaiitino, 
VV(i Hat, at oaHo. 

Atid O (lie LnMcnMipH I fliat field 

O' l,Il(( e,lo(,li of gold, wlieriT peiiiionM Hwaw 
Wlicro Franeo sot, iij) his lilitsd ulucid, 

IIJH oriflanil), 

And Henry's lion-Htandard rolled : 

What was it to th;iir mat (th less Hhoen, 

Their million million dntpH of gold 
Among lh(j green ! 

Wo flat at case Irt peaf-efnl (rnRt, 

Tor ho had written, " Lei, im moot ; 

My wifo grow tired of Hinoko and dusti 
JVnd JjotHlon boat, 



THE LETTER L. 

"And I have found a quiet grange, 

Set back in meadows sloping west, 
And there our little ones can range 
And she can rest. 

** Come down, that we may show the view. 

And she may hear youj- voice again, 
And talk her woman's talk with you 

Along the lane." 

Since he had drawn with listless hand 
The letter, six long years had fled, 

And winds had blown about the sand. 
And they were 'wed. 

Two rosy urchins near him played, 

Or watched, entranced, the shapely sliipg 

That with his knife for them he made 
Of elder slips. 

And where the flowers were thickest 8he«|^ 
Each blossom like a burnished gem, 

A creeping baby reared its head. 
And cooed at them. 

And calm was on the father's face, 
And love was in the mother's eyes ; 

She looked and listened from her place^ 
In tender wise. 

She did not need to raise her voice 

That they might hear, she sat so nigh ; 

Vet -ne could speak when 'twas our choioe< 
And soft reply. 

Holding our quiet talk apart 

Of household things ; till, all unsealed. 
The guarded outworks of the heart 

Began to yield ; 



THE LETTER L. 

And imicli that prudence will not dip 
Tiie pen to fix and send away, 

Passed safely over from tlie lip 
That summer day. 

"I should be haj)py," with a look 
Towards lier husband where he lay. 

Lost in the paijes of his book, 
Soft did she say ; 

* I am, and yet no lot below 

for one whole day eludeth care \ 
To marriaoe all the stories flow, 
And finish there : 

* As if with marriae^G came the end. 
The entrance into settled rest, 

The calm to which love's tossings tend. 
The quiet breast, 

•* For me love i)layecl the low preludes, 
Yet life began but with the ring. 

Such infinite solicitudes 
Around it cling. 



&• 



** I did not for my heart divine 
Her destiny so meek to grow ; 

The higher nature matched with XDXM 
Will have it 80. 

•* Still 1 consider it, and still 

Acknowledge it my master made, 

Above me by the steadier will 
Of naught afraid. 

." Above me by (he candid speech ; 

Tlie temperate judgment of its own ; 
The keener thoughts that grasp and reaofe 
At things unknown. 



»00 THE IF.TTFR L, 

'* l^it T look up and he looks down, 
And (luis our inarriiMl oy(>s can luoet " 

Un(do>iili'(l his, and cloiir of iVown, 
And gmvoly swoot. 

" Anil yo(. () i;oo(l, O wise and Irno 1 

1 Nvoijld for Jill n»y foalty, 
Tliat I coidd ho as njucli to you 

As yt)u to mo ; 

"And know tin* doop socuro content 
Of wiv(>s wlio liavt> IxHii hardly won. 

And, hin;; pi^iiiuMunl, gave assi'nt, 
JoaUnis t>r nono. 

"But proudly snro in all tlio earth 
No i>tht>r in Ilia I honiano v^hares, 

Kor other wtnnan's faeo or worth 
l8 prized as tht<irs." 

I said : **Attd f/t'f no lot Mow 
For ona ifholti (fat/ elmhih care, 

Your thoimht." She answered, *' Kvov mk 
1 wi>uM l)i>waro 

** I?(\s4;ret f ul (juestioninsys ; bo snre 
That very s<>hloni do they rise. 

Nor for nAvst>lf do I tMiduro — 
i syui^>a(l\r/.e. 

" For oneo ** — she turned away her hoi»A, 
Aeri^ss the urass sht> swi'pt her han«l >- 

**Tli'M-e was !i li>tter o!\ee," she isaid, 
** Upon the sand." 

"I^i'i-o M'as. in truth, a letti>r writ 

On sand," I saivl. ** an»l swept from view ; 

Bnt that same Inuul that fasl\ionod it 
Ih given to yoii. 



run i.nTTEk i. i6i 

•EiTiico l,li(( !(•( (,(•!• : wliorc'fon! keep 
All iiiiiin'c* wliich (lie kiiikIm fdrc/roY** 

"Allx^il, liiiU. IViir liu.l HC(uiic(l (,() hIucp," 
8I10 iUiHW'crcd low, 

•I could iioL clioosc l)ii(. vv;ilvf! it now, 

For do but turn iiKidu your luce, 
A houHci on yonder hilly brow 

Your Ciyt'H iiijiy trucy. 

" The clicHtnut, HhoUers it ; ah me, 
Thiit I hliould liuvcf HO I'iiint a heart 1 

But ycHl.or eve, uh by th<; sea 
1 Mat apart, 

"T h(!ard a name, I Haw a hand 

OC puswing H(i-an;^(:i' point tliat way -» 

And will Iiu meet her on the istrand^ 
When lato wo Btray ? 

" For Hh(5 is come, for nho \h tliero, 

\ lu'ard it in tlie dusk, and liciird 
Adrniriiifj; vvordw, tiiat named heriairj 

IJiit littlo Btirrod 

" By beauty of tlie wood and wave, 

And weary of an old man'H Hway I 
For it vvaH nweiiter to oiiHlavo 

Than to (jbey.'* 

— The voice of ono that near uh utood^ 

Th<; ruHth; of a Hillcen fold, 
A Kcent of (iastcin Handalwood, 

A gleam of yold I 

A lady 1 In tlu! narrow Hpaco 

Ji(;twecn I Ik; husband and iIk; wife, 
But ncarcHt him — she Khowed a faoo 

With dangers rife ; 



109 THE LETTEk L 

A subtle smile that (liiu])ling fled, 
As niolit -black lasbos rose and fell : 

I looked, :uid to myself I said, 
« Tlie Letter L." 

He, too, looked up, and M'itb arrest 
Of breath and motion held his gaze, 

Kor eared to hide Avithin his breast 
His deej) amaze ; 

Kor spoke till on her near advance 
His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue ; 

And Avith his change of countenance 
Hers altered too. 

** Lenore I " his voice -vvas like the cry 
Of one entreating ; and he said 

But that — then paused Avitli such a sigh 
As mourns the dead. 

And seated near, with no demur 
or bashful doubt she silence broke. 

Though I alone could answer her 
When first she spoke. 

She looked : her eyes were beauty's own ; 

She shed their sweetness into his ; 
Nor spared the married wife one moan 

That bitterest is. 

iShe spoke, and. lo, her loveliness 

Methought she damaged with her tougoc 

And every sentence made it lesa. 
So false they rung. 

Tlie rallying voice, the light deicand, 
Half flippant, half unsatisfied j 

The vanity sincere and bland — • 
The answers wide. 



TirE LkTTEti L l/H 

And now her talk was (if \\w Eafit, 
Am<1 iK'xt Ikt talk wan of (lie Hca ; 

"And has tliu love I'ur il increased 
You shared with meV" 

H(f answorcd not, l)u( <j;rav(' and still 
With eaiiK'st eyes her face j)eru8ed, 

And lockcnl his lijts with steady will, 
As one that mused — 

That mused and wondered. Why hit* gaze 
Should dwell on lier, methought, w»s plaiu j 

But reason that should wonder raise 
1 sought in vain. 

And near and near the cliildreu drew, 

Attracted by her rich ai-ray, 
And gems that trembling into view 

Like raindrops lay. 

He spoke : the wir(^ her hah 3'^ took 
And pressed the little face to hers ; 

What pain soe'er her bosom shook. 
What jealous stirs 

Might stab her heart, she hid Ihcm sO; 

The cooing babe a veil suj)j)lied ; 
And if she listened none might know 

Or if she sighed ; 

Or if, forecasting grief and care. 
Unconscious solace thence she drew 

AjuI hilled her babe, and unaware 
Lulled sorrow too. 

Tlio lady, she interjn'cter 

For looks or language* wanted nonOi 
If yet dominion stayed with her— • 

So lightly won ; 



104 TFE LETTER Z. 

If yet the heart she uoundecl sore 
Ooultl yearn to lier, and lot her see 

Tlie homage that was evermore 
DisloyaUy ; 

If sign would yield that it had hied, 
Or rallied from the faithless hlov7, 
, Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, 
She craved to know. 

Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, 
Her asking eyes would round him shine } 

But guarded lips and settled mien 
Refused the sign. 

And unheguiled and unhetrayed, 
The wonder yet within his breast, 

It seemed a watchful part he played 
Against her quest. 

Until with accent of regret 

She touched upon the past once more. 
As if she dared him to forget 

His dream of yore. 

And words of little weight let fall 
The fancy of the lower mind ; 

IIow waxing life must needs leave all 
Its hest hehiud ; 

How he had said that " he would fain 
(One morning on the halcj-on sea) 

That life would at a stand remain 
Eternally ; 

** And sails be mirrored in the deep^ 
As then they were for evermore, 

And hap]iy sjiirits wake and sleep 
Afar from shore : 



THE LETTER L. 108 

'The well-contented heart be fed 

Ever as then, and all the world 
(It were not sniall) iinsliadowed 

When sails were furled. 

** Yonr words " ~ a pause, and quietly 

With touch of calm self-ridicule : 
"It may be so— for then," said he, 

"1 was a fool.*' 

» 

With that lie took his book, and left 

An awkward silence to my cai-e, 
That soon I filled with questions deft 

And debonair ; 

And slid into an easy vein, 

The favorite picture of the year; 
The trrouse upon her lord's domain — 

The salmon weir ; 

Till she could fei^n a sudden thought 

Upon neglected cruests, and rise 
And make us her adieux, with naught 

In her dark eyes 

Acknowledging or shame or pain j 

But just unveiling for our view 
A '.ittle smile of still disdain 

As she withdrew. 

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, 
. And warmer came the wafting breeze, 
The little bal)e was fast asleep 
On mother's knees. 

Fair was the face that o*er it leant, 

The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed i 

The downcast lashes, shyly bent. 
That failed to hide 



100 THE LETTER L. 

Some fender shame. She did not see i 
Slu' felt his eyes that wouhl not stii ; 

Slie looked upon lier babe, and he 
So looked at her. 

So grave, so -wondering, so content, 
As one new waked to conscious life, 

Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, 
lie said, " My wife." 

" ]\Jy wife, liow beautiful you are I " 
Then closer at her side reclined ; 

" The bold brown woman from afar 
Comes, to me blind. 

** And by comparison I see 
The majesty of matron grace, 

And learn how pure, how fair can be 
My own wife's face : 

" Pure with all faithful passion, fair 
With tender smiles that come and go 

And comforting as April air 
After the snow. 

" Fool that I was I my spirit frets 
And marvels at the humbling trnth 

That I have deigned to spend regrets 
On my bruised youth. 

** Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, 
And shamed me for the mad mistake ) 

I tliank my God he could deny. 
And she forsake, 

"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved 
Me from the doom I did desire, 

And crossed the lot myself had craved. 
To set me higher ? 



THE HIGH TIDE, ETC. W 

*What }»;ive 1 done that lie Rhould bow 
From lioaven to choose a wife for mo? 

And what, deserved, he shotihl endow 
My home with tiikkV 

"My wife ! " With that she turned her fc«H 

To kiss the hand about her neek ; 
And I went down and sought the phioe 

Where leaped the beck — 

The busy beck, that still would run 

And fall, and falter its refrain ; 
And ])ause and Hhimmer in the sun. 

And fall asjain. 



"&■ 



It led me to the sandy shore, 
We sang together, it and 1 — 

** The daylight comes, the dark is o*er. 
The shadows fly." 

I lost it on the sandy shore, 

*« O wife 1 " its latest murmurs felV 

** O wife, bo glad and fear no more 
The letter L." 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

Thb old mayor climbed the belfry tower 

Tlie ringers ran by two, by three ; 
** Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," (|uoth h©, 
"Play uppe, play uppe, O liosfon bells 1 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe ' The Brides of Endcrby.' " 



THE ITTGH TIDE ON TffS 

Men say it was a stolen tyde -^ 
The Lord that sent it, lie knows all ; 

But in myne ears dotli still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

(\Tid there was nanght of strange, beside 

The llight of mews and peewits ])ied 
By millions crouched on the old «ea wali 

V sat and spun withhi the doore, 

Hy thread l)reak off, I raised myne eyes j 
Ihe level sun, like ruddy ore. 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
v\nd dark against day's golden death 
She moved \vl)ere Lindis wandereth, 
t»Jy Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 



* Casha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
ViTQ the early dews were falling, 
tarre away I hea»d her song, 

" (hisha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, lloweth, 
'^rom the meads whore melick growetb 
faintly came her milking song — 

* Cusha ! Cusha ! Cnsha ! " calling, 
*■■ For the dews wiJ soone be falling ; 
LfJave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot t 
IJuit the stalks of parsley hollow, ■ 

Hollow, hollow ; 
v^ome uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come nppe, Lightfoot, 
Come uppe, Jetty, lise and follow, 
/vitty ♦.0 tie milking shed." 



CO A ST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 109 

If it l>c lonrr, ay, long ago, 

When I begiimc to think howo long, 

Agaiiie I hear the Liiidis How, 
Swift as an arrowc, shaipc and strong ; 

And all the aire, it seenicth nice, 

Bin lull of Hoating bells (sayth shoe). 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh tho level pasture lay, 

And not a shadowe mote be secnc, 
Save where fnll fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the grocne ; 
And lo ! the great bell fari-e and wide 
Was heard \\\ all the country side 
That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds Avhere their sedges are 

Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The snepherde lads I heard afarre. 

And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Citne downe that kyiidly message free, 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Litidis flow^ 
To wliere the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly stee])le shows. 
They sayde, " And why should this thing be? 
Wiiat danger lowers l)y hind or sea? 
They ring the tune ol" Enderby I 

*' For evil news from Mablethor]-)e, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond tho scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne ^ 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyratcs flee, 
Why ring • The Brides of Enderby ? ' *» 



110 THE JUG If TIDE O.V THE 

I looked williouf, aiul lo ! my sonne 

(^ime ridiiiix doMiio -witli luiiijht mid main ! 

He raised a .shout, as lio drew on, 
Till all the welkin ran<j^ again, 

«].:ii/,al.e(li! Elizabeth 1^" 

{\ sweeter woman ne\'r drewLreath 

Than my Sonne's Avifo Kli/.abeth.) 

** The (ddo poa ■wall (lie erled) is downe. 

The risiiiL:; tide comes on apace, 
And boats ailril't in yond»>r towno 

(to sailinj^ ni)])o the market -j>lacc." 
IIo shook as one that looks on death : 
" (lod s;ivo you, motlur ! " straight ho saith ; 
" WluM'o is iny wife, Elizabeth ? " 

" (u>od Sonne, Avliero Lindis Avinds lierway, 
With lier twt) bairns 1 marked her long ; 
And ore yonng bells bt^ganne to [>lay 

Afar 1 heanl her milking song." 
He looked aeross the grassy lea, 
To right, to left, " lIo, Endtrby ! " 
Tlioy^-ang "Tho liridcLi of Eiid'erby 1 »» 

"With that he eried and beat bis breiwtt ; 

For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And u{)|)e the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thundi'roiis noisi>s loud ; 
Shaped like a curling siu)w-white eloiui. 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis bai-kward pressed 

Shook all her trembling bankes aniaine } 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung nppe her weltering walls again. 
TluMi bankes eamo downe with ruin and roiit-^ 
Tlu»n beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty Hoods \veve o\\%» 



COAST OF LINCOLNS/riRE. IH 

B<) f:in-(>, so f:is(, tlio cygit' <lr:ivo, 

'i'lii'i lu'.ut, li;iil Icinlly time (o l»c'at 
Hefore ;i shallow scclliint;' wave 

S()I»I»('(1 ill (liti (^Tiissi's III, our Ittut : 
Tlu! Jec't liad hardly tiiiu- to Hco 
Beforo it brake aj^aiiisl. tlio kiU'O, 
Ami all the world was in the sea. 

Upon Ao roofo we sale that nljjjht, 
'J'lio noise of l)ells went sweeping by ; 

I nia.'-.id the lofty beaeoii light 

Stream from \\\i\ (•hiii-ch tower, red and liigh — 

A Iiirivl mark .md dread lu see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

Tliat ill the dark rang " lOiiderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofo to roofo who fearless rowed ; 

And r — ^my sonne was at my side, 
And yet tlui niddy bc^aeon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

*'0 come in life, or come in death I 

O lost i my love, Elizabeth." 

And dnlst thou visit him no more ? 

Tliou didst, thou didst, my daughter dearo ] 
The waters laid fhe(^ at his doore, 

Kre yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast oinbrace, 
'V\u\ liftcMl Sim shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-i)lace. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out t,he flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebb(! and flow, alas ! 

To maiiye more than myne and mee : 

Ibit, each will mourn his own (she saith) j 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth, 



119 THE HIGH TIDh, ETC 

I shall novor hoar her more 
By the reedy Liiidis shore, 
' Cusha 1 C'uslia ! Cusha ! " calling. 
Ere the early dews he falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, • 

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis lloweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads Avhere melick groweth. 
When the water Mindiig down, 
Onward flowclh to the town. 

I shall never see lier more 

Where the reeds and lushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand heside the sobhijig river 
Sobbing, throbbing, in iis falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her ealling, 
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

JMellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come nppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot : 
Quit your j)ii)es of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, liollow ; 
Tome npjie, Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Light ftJot, Whitefoot, 
Prom your clovers lift the head : 
Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 



AFTEkNOOS' At A PARSONAGE. 118 



AFTEKNOON AT A TARSONAGE. 

(tub parson's brotiiku, sister, and two children.) 

/ Veface. 

What wond^-r man should fail to stay 

A niirsliiij^ wiiftcMl i'roiii above, 
Tho growth celestial come astray, 

That tender growth whoso namo ia Love ! 

It is as if high winds in heaven 

Had sliaken the celestial trees. 
And to tliis eartli below had given 

Some feathered seeds from one of these. 

O perfect love that 'dureth long I 

Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. 

And br .atbed on by the angel's song, 
Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms ! 

How great the task to guard thee here. 
Whore wind is rough, and frost is keen. 

And all the ground with doubt and fear 
Is checkered birth and death between I 

Space is against thee — it can part ; 

Time is against tliee — it can chill ; 
Words — they but render half the heart ; 

Deeds — they are poor to our rich wilL 

Merton. Though she had loved me, I had never bound 
Her beauty to my darkness ; that had been 
Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near 
Into a face all shadow, than to stand 
Aloof, and then withdraw, afterwards 
Sufi[er forgetfuluesa to comfort hex. 



114 AFT^HmON' J T A PAffSOyAGS. 

I think so, and I lovod ber ; therefore I 

Have no complaint ; albeit she is not mine : 

And yet — and yet, withdrawing I Avonld fain 

She would have pleaded duty — would have said 

" My father wills it ; " would have turned away, 

As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then 

She would have done no damage to (he past i 

Now she has roughly used it — flung it down 

And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, 

'* Sir, I have promised ; therefore, lo ! my hand "— > 

Would I have taken it ? Ah, no 1 by all * 

Most sacred, no I 

I would for my sole share 
Have taken first her recollected blush 
The day I won her ; next her shining tears — 
The tears of our long ]iar(ing : and for all 
The rest — her cry, her bitter heartsick cry, 
That day or night (I know not which it was, 
The days being always night), that darkest night, 
"When being led to her I heard her crv, 
" O blind 1 blind I blin.l ! » 

Go vvitl\ thy chosen mate 
The fashion of thy going nearly cured 
The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak 
That half my thoughts go after thee ; but not 
So weak that I desire to have it so. 

Jessie, seated ot the piano^ sings. 

Wlicn the dimpled water sllppeth. 

Full of laughter, on its way. 
And her wing the wagtail dippctb. 

Running by the brink at play ; 
When the poplar leaves atremblo 

Turn their edges to the light. 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and Mhite } 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

AVoodland moss and branches browOj 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down : 



AFTERI^OOIV AT A PARSONAGR. Hi 

Though till) lie:u-t bo not attotuling, 

llaviii<^ musii! of licr own, 
On tho grass, (lirongh iiu-iulows wending, 

It is sweet to walk alone. 



When tlu! falling wafers u<ter 

Sonielliing mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows lliil tei" 

Taking leave of hank and brao ; 
WluMi tlie cliatllneh idly sitteth 

With her inat.e upon the sheaves. 
And the wistful robin fiitteth 

Over beads of yellow leaves ; 
When the clouds, like gliosis that pondet 

Evil fate, float by and frown, 
And the listless wind doth wander 

U[) and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through thu Tk^Ms and fallows wending, 

It is sad to walk alono. 

Merton. Blind I blind 1 blind ! 
Oh I sitting in the dark for evermore, 
And doing nothing — putting out a hand 
To feel wliat lies about me, and t-o say 
Not "This is blue or red," but "This is cold. 
And this tl'e sun is shining on, and this 
I know not till tlu^y tell its name to me." 

O that 1 might beliold once more, my God ! 
The shining rulers of the night and day; 
Or a star twinkling ; or an almond-t I'ee, 
Pink with her blossom and alive with beo«, 
Standing against the azure ! O my sight! 
Ijost, and yet living in the sunlit vvWh 
Of memory — that, only lightsome place 
Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth I 
The years of mourning for thy death arc long. 



m AFTEXXOOX .Vl A rARSONAGR. 

Ho kir.d, swo.'t inoim)rv' 1 O dosertme not I 

For oft tluui show'si ino Iiicoiit o}>al sons, 

I''rinijod wiih ilu'ir (H>o(K»-|i;ilnis, ami dwarf red craglL 

WluTooii ilio placitl muon <l()th "rest ber chin ;" 

I'or oft, by laAorof (liy visi liios 

1 iVt'l tlu' (liiniie.<s of an Iiidian night, 

And lo ! the sun is coTning. Kod as rust 

Hotwoon till' lattiiH>d l)lin«l liis |nosonoe burns, 

A ruby la(hU'r ruiinin<i up tho wall ; 

And all till' dust, piiiUi'd with pigeons' foet, 

Is roddonod, atid iho crows (hat stalk anear 

Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, 

And the I'ed Ihnvers give baek at oneo tho dew. 

For night is gone, and day is born so fast, 

And is so strong, that, huddled as in tiight. 

The lleeting darkness paleth to a shade, 

And while siie ealls to sleep and dreams '* Come on," 

Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, 

\Yhich having opened, lo 1 she is no mora 

misery and mourning 1 1 have felt — 
Yes, I have felt like some deserted world 
That God had done with, and had east aside 
To roek and stagger through the gulfs of space. 
He never looking on it any more — 
Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, 
Nor lighted on by angels in their Hight 
From heaven to happier planets, and the race 
Tliat once had ilwelt on it withdrawn or dead. 
Could sueh a world have hojie that stnie blest day 
God wotdd remember her, and fashion her anew? 

./<>•.-?/(•. What, dearest? Did yon sj)eak to mo? 

Child. I think he spoke to us. 
M. No, little elves, 

You were so quiet thatl half forgot 
Your neighborhood. What are vou doing tlier«f 

/'! 'Hiey sit together on the window-mat 
Nursing their dolls. 

C. Yes, Unele, our new dolls,— 
Our best dolls, that you gave us. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSON AGP 117 

M, Did you say 

Th(i uftornoon was bright? 

/t' YoH, briglit iudeodT 

Tho sun is on llio plano-trco, and it llanics 
All red and orange. 

(J. I <'an SCO my fallicr — 

Look ! look I the kiavi-'H aru i'alling on bis gown, 

M. Wh'jro? 

(J, In tbo cburcibyard, Unulo — bo is gone . 

IIo passed Ixiliiiwl the tower. 

M. I heard a hell : 

There is a fun(>ral, then, behind the ehunh. 

"Id CliiliL Are tlio trees sorry when (hi'ir leaves 
drop oir? 

l.s^ Child. You talk such silly woids ; — no, not at 
all. 
There goes another leaf. 

2d dhild. I did not see. 

1st Child. Look 1 ')n the grass, between tbo litclu 
hills, 
Just where they planted Amy. 

Ji*. Amy died — 

Dear little Amy I wlu-n you talk of her, 
Say, she is gone to heaven. 

2d Child. They planted her — 

AVill slui e-ome up next year '/ 

\st Child. No, not so soon ; 

liut some day God will call her lo come up, 
And then sIim will. J'a|)a knows everything — 
He said she woidd before! he ])lante(l her. 

2d Child. It was at night she went to heavea 
L;ist night 
We saw a star hi^fore we w<'nt. to bed. 

Ist Child. Ves, Uncle, did you know ? 
A largo bright star, 

And at her side she had somi^ little ones-'- 
Some youtig ones, 

M. Young ones ! no, my little maid, 
TbosG stars are very oh I 



118 AFTERNOON AJ A PARSON AG Ji 

\st Child. What I all of them ? 

M. Yes. 

l.s^ Child. Older than our father? 

M. OKI or, far. 

2(7 Child. They must be tired of shining there bo 
long. 
Perhaps they wish they might come down. 

F. Perhaps I 

Dear children, talk of what you understand. 
Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up 
That last night's wind has loosened. 

1st Child. ]\Iay we help ? 

Aunt may we help to nail them ? 

1^. AVe shall see. 

Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. 

[Steps outside the loindoiOf lifts a branch and sinffs] 

Should I change my allegiance for rancor 

Tf fortune changes her side? 
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, 

Turn with the turn of the tide ? 
Lift 1 O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou -wilt, thy gloon\ forego I 
An thou Milt not, he and I 

Need not part for drifts of snow. 

M. [within]. Lift ! no, thou lowering sky, thou 
wilt not lift — 
Thy motto readeth, " NcA-er.** 

Children. Here they are I 

Here are the nails I and may we help? 

JFl You shidl, 

If I should want help. 

1st Child. Will you want it then ? 
Please want it — we like nailing. 

'Za Child. Yes, we do. 

JFl It seems I ought to want it ; hold the bough. 
And each may nail in turn. 



AFTERNOON- AT A PARSONAGE 119 

[Sings.] 

Like a daisy I was, near liiiu ojrowing : 

Must I move because favors il:i^, 
Ami l)e like a brov/u wall-flower blowing 

Far out of reach in a crag? 
Lift 1 lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An ihou eanst, thy blue regain I 
And thou canst not, lie and I 

Need not part for drops of rain. 

Ist Child. Now, have we nailed enough ? 

J. \trai)it< the en'e}>eri<\. Yes, you may go ; 
But do not play too near the churchyard path, 

M. \_witfiiii^. Even misfertiino does not strike so 
near 
As my dependence. O, in youth and strength 
To sit a tiniid coward in tlie dark. 
And feel before I set a cautious step I 
It is so very dark, so far more dark 
Than any night th:it day comes after — night 
In which there would be stars, or else at least 
The silvered portion of a somber cloud 
Through which the moon is plunging. 

J .[cnteritiq~\. Merton I 

N:. Yes. 

J. Dear Merton, did you know tliat I could hear? 

M. No ; e'en my solitude is not mine now, 
And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. 
Alas ! far more than eyesight have I lost ; 
For manly courage drifteth after it — 
E'en as a splintered spar would drift away 
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain - 
Like a weak ailing woman I complain. 

J. For the first time. 

M. T cannot bear the dark. 

M. IVIy brother ! you do bear it — bear it well ^ 
Have born it twelve long months, and not complair^t/tt 
Comfort your heart with music : all the air 
Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. 
You like to feel them on you. Come and play. 



ISO AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGB. 

M, My fate, my fate, is lonely I 

J. So it ia — 

1 know it is. 

M. And pity breaks my heart. 

J. Does it, dear Merton ? 

31. Yes, I say it do©^ 

What ! do you think I am so dull of ear 

That I can mark no changes in the tones 

That reach mo ? Once I liked not girlish prid« 

And tliat coy quiet, chary of reply, 

That held me distant : now the sweetest lij)? 

Open to entertain me — fairest hands 

Are proffered me to guide. 

J. That is not w^Il ? 

31. No : give me coldness, pride, or still disOainj 
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anytliing 
But this — a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, 
Whereof I may exjicct, I may exact, 
Considerate care, and have it — gentle speech. 
And have it. Give me anything but this I 
For they who give it, give it in the faith 
That I will not misdeem them, and forget 
My doom so far as to perceive thereby 
Hope of a Avife. They make this thought too* plain \ 
They wound me — O they cut me to the heart 1 
When have I said to any one of them, 
*' I am a blind and desolate man ; — come here, 
I pray you — be as eyi-s to me ?" Wlien said. 
Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet 
To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands 
That clasp a lifelong captive's thi-ough the grate. 
And Avho will ever lend her delicate aid 
To guide me, dark incumbrance that I am I — 
When have I said to her, " Comforting voice. 
Belonging to a face imknown, I pray 
Be my wife's voice ? " 

J. Never my brother — no. 

You never have ! 

M, What could she think of me 



SONGS OF SEVEN: 1)11 

ff I forgoi myself so far ? or what 
Conid she reply ? 

J. You ask not as men ask 

\Anio care for an ophiion, else, perhaps, 
Althougli I am not sure — although, perhaps, 
I have no riglit to give one — I should say 
She would reply " I will 1 " 



Afterthought, 

Man dwells apart, though not alone, 
He walks among liis peers unread ; 

The best of thoutihts which he hath known 
For lack of hsteners are not said. 

Fet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
He saifcli, " They dwell not lone like men.* 

Forgetful th.at their sunflecked smiles 
Flash far beyond each other's ken. 

He looks on God's eternal suns 

Tiiat sprinkle the celestial blue, 
And saith, " Ah ! ha|)py shining ones, 

I would that men were grouped like you I " 

Yet this is sure : the loveliest star 
That clusiered with its peers we see. 

Only because from us so far 

Doth near its fellows seem to be. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. 

There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said my "seven times" over and over, 

Seven times one are seven. 



i83 SOATGS OF SEVEN. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birtliday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
A«d shining so round and low ; 

You were bright I ah, bright \ but your light is fail. 

You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 l»ope if you have you Mill soon be forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, 
You've powdered your legs with gold 1 

O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold I 

O columbine, oj^en your folded Avrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell 1 

cuckoopint, toll me the purple cla} per 
That hangs in your clear green bell 1 

And show me your nest witli the young ones in it j 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old I you may trust mo, linnet, linnet — 
I am seven times one to-day. 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCB. 

Yon bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be, 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 13t 

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have fort^otten tlicir old art of telling 

The fortune of future days. 

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 

VVhik' a boy Istcned alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor oells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover, 

You leave thf. story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted beather. 

Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : 

O, children take long to gi'ow. 

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster. 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, 

For some things are-ill to wait. 



■o'- 



I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 
While dear hands are laid on my head ; 

" The child is a woman, the book may close over, 
For all the lessons are said." 

I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it \ 

Such as 1 wish it to be. 



BBVEN TIMES THREE. LOTE. 

L ieaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
P^rk, dark was the garden, and I saw not the gate > 



VU so JVC S OF SEVEJV. 

**Now, if there be footstep?;, he comes, my one 

lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush 1 O, sweet nightingale, 

wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step drawcth near, 
For my love he is late I 

" The skies in the darkness etoop nearer and nearer^ 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 
The fall of the water conies sweeter, comes clearer : 

To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? 

Let the star-clusters grow, 

Let the sweet waters flow. 

And cross quickly to nie. 

"You night moths that hover where honey brims 
over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathAvay discover 

To him that conies darkling along the rough steep. 

Ah, my sailor, njake haste, 

For the time runs to waste. 

And my love lieth deep — 

"Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, ray one lo-^r, 

I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to night." 
B}'^ the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took 
flight 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 



SETEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITT. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, * 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall I 



SONGS OF SEVEN', 13o 

When tbe wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, 
And dance wilh tlie cuckoo-buds slender and small 1 

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own 
lasses 
Eager to gather them all. 

lleigh ho I daisies and buttercups I 

Motlier shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing lliem a song of tjie jiretty hedge 8j)arrow ; 
That h)\'«il her brown little ones, loved them full 
fain : 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the Louse be but 
narrow " — 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet waguing cowslips, they bend and they bow ; 
A ship sails al'ar over warm ocean watei's, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
O bonny hrown sons, and O sweet little daughters. 

Maybe he thinks on you now 1 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow dafFodils, stately and tall ! 
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and 
thrall I 
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing iti 
^ measure, 

God that is over us all I 



iSVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOTHOODk 

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan 

Before J am well awake ; 
**Let me bleed I O let me alone^ 

Since I must not breaii 1 " 



!2d SONGS Of SEVEN. 

For children wake, though fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and at head : . 

sleepless Ciod, forever keep, 
Keep both living and dead 1 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see 

And a world happy aud fair I 
I have not wished it to mourn with vaik<- 
Comfort is not there. 

O what anear but golden brooms. 
But a waste of reedy rills 1 

what afar but the tine glooms 
On the rare blue hills I 

1 shall not die, but live forlore — 

How bitter it is (o part I 
O to meet thee, my love, once more f 
O my heart, my heart I 

No more to hear, no more to see \ 
O that an echo might wake 

And waft one note of (hy psalm to OK 
Ere mv heart-striners break 1 



■o" 



I should know it how faint soe'er, 
And with angel voices blent ; 

O once to feel thy spirit anear : 
I could be content 1 

Or once between (he gates of gold. 
While an enterinu- ansiel trod. 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God 1 



SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVINQ IS MABBIAttl 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
To watch, and then to lose i 



SOA'GS Of SEVEN. W 

To see my biij^^Iit ones disaiipear, 

Drawn uj) liko inorning dews — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To wateli, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew neM 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to Iieed, to wed, , 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears tliat lie, as soon as shed. 

Will let no longer smart.^ 
To hear, to heed, to wed, 

This while thou didst I smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give mk thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind ! 

To God I gave with tertrs, 
But wiien a man like grace wDuld find) 

My sold put by her fears — 
O fond, O fool, and blind I 

God guards in hA])picr- spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said. 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To love — and then to lose. 



8BVBN TIMBS SBYEN. LONGIira FOB BOm 

I. 

A song of a boat : — 
There was once a boat on a billow: 
lightly she rocked to her port remote^ 



llBi SONGS OP SEVEI^. 

And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow 
And bent like a wand of willow. 



X shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went courtsying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day wei'e about the boat 
Aad my dreams upon the pillow. 



IIL 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boa*, you shall find none fairer afloat. 

In nver or port, 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea, 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore. 

For be came not back to me — 

Ah me ! 



IT. 

A song of a nest : — 
There was once a nest in a iiollow : 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed* 
Soft and warm, and full to the brirc — 
fetches leaned over it purple and diia. 
With buttercup buds to follow. 



t. 



I pray you heai aiy song of a owst 

For it ifi aoT long : — 
fou shaJ never light, in a ijuiiuiir' 



V^.>;>. 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. t8» 

Shall never light on a j)ronder sitter, 

A fairer nestfnl, nor ever know 
A softer sound tlian their tender twitter. 

That wind-like did come and go. 

VI. 

I had a nestful once of my own, . 

Ah, happy, happy 1 ! 
llight dearly I IovchI them : but when they were growl 

They spread out their wings to fly — 
O, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue. 
To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I was going too. 

VII. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 

Naj^, but the port where my sailor went, 
And the land where my nestlings be : 

There is the home Avhere my thoughts are sen^ 
The only liome for me — 

Ah me i 



A COTTAGE IK ^ OHFKIt. 

'!V s reaobe*' tbe r\^»e<^. by i::i£ iit, 
And hr-.t-'i. fcjx'. waves breakic^ . 

yhQj came to msat rjs with easdl^fc; :3;il£i. 

To sL- , j^^ jf)*-.jli we were teliinig. 
^ myrtle, trained on the gatis, was wlMi^ 
Wit-in tViitad fliuwers doWE fsfciski^^ 



'10 A COTTAGE IN A CHINS, 

With lii'a«l biMioath lior wing, 

A littU' wTi'ii was sloi'ping — 
So lU'ar, 1 had round it jin easy thing 

To sti'al her for my korpiiig 
Fr«)ni (ho niyrtU^ hough that, with easy swing 

Across the path w:is swi'C|iing. 

Down roc'lxV stops voiioh-hcwi^d, 

NNlu'io cup-Miossos lU)\vorod, 
And undor (lio troos, all twisted and nule^ 

WluMowilh iho doll was doworod, v 

riu'v hnl us, whoro doop in its solitudo 

Ijay tho oottago, loal'-oniboworod. 

The thatoh was all bosproad 

AVith oliuibing ]»assit)n llowors ; 
Thoy wore wet, and glistened with vain-drops, shell 

'riiat day in gonial showers. 
"Was liovor a swoi'tor nest," wo said, 

" Than this little nest of onrs." 

We laid us down to sleep : 

]iut as for njo — wjiking, 
I marked tlie plunge of the muffled deep 

On its sandy reaehes breaking ; 
For heart -joy aiiee doth sometimes keep 

From clumber, like heart aehing. 

And I was glad that night, 

With no reason ready, 
To give my own heart for its dee[» delight, 

Tliat tlowed like some tidal eddy, 
Or shone like a star that was rising bright 

With comforting radiance steady. 

But on a sudden — hark 1 

JMusio struck asunder 
Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in tho dark, 

8o swi-et was the unseen wonvler ; 
So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a murk, 

Tho trouble that joy kept uuiiev. 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. \%\ 

I rnso — tlio tiioon oiilslioiio : 

I saw (lio Ki'a licaviiiir, 
And a litMo vessel sailinjr alono, 

The Niiiall crisp waveluf, cleavinjv ; ' 
'Twas she as slie saiieil lo Iicr port, unknown — 

VV'^as that track ol' swei'tncsa leaviiii'. 

Wo know f.liey nnisle made 

In heaven, ere man's crealion ; 
Dnt when (Jod tlirew it down to us that strayc*' 

It dropt witii lamentation, 
And ever since doth its sweetness filiado 

Witli si^diH for its lirst station. 

Its joy stijjfti^ests reufret 

lis most for more is yearning; 
And it hrinirs to the sou! tiiat its vo:co hath mot 

No rest th;it ca(h'nc(i h'arnin^^, 
But a (conscious part in tlie sighs that fret 

Its nature for returnintr. 

O Kve, sweet Eve; I methoiioht 

Wlion soinetiincH comfort winning, 
j\h slio wat(!lu!d tlie (Irst chiUlren's tc'ndor sjiort, 

Sole joy horn slnctc her sinning, 
If a bird aiiear them s:ing, it l)rotight 

The pang as at beginning. 

Whilo swam the unslied tear, 

Her prattlcM-H, litth^ he(Mling, 
Woidd mnrmnr, "This bird, with its carol clear, 

When the red (rlay was kneaden, 
And (Jod made Aihitn our fathi-r dear, 

Sang to him thuc in Eden." 

The moon went in — llic wky 

And earth and sea liiding ; ^ 

I laid me down, with the\('arnlng slgL 

Of thai, strain in my licirt abiding ; 
I slept-, and tiu! bark that li.-ul sailed tio nigb 

In my dream was ever gliding. 



188 A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

I slopt, but. waked amazed, 

Willi suddoii iioiso triglited, 
Anil void's witiioiit, and a Hash that dazed 

JMy eyes from candles lighted. 
** Ah ! siii\'Iy,"inethoiight, " by these shouts upraiaed. 

Some travelers are benighted." 

\ voiee was at my side — 
" Waken, madatn, waken ! 

The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride, — 
Let the child from its rest be taken, 

For the i-aptain (h)th weary for babe and for bride- 
Waken, madam, waken 1 

" The home you U>ft but late, 

lie Sjieeds to it light-hearted ; 
By the wires he sent this news, and straight 

To you with it they started." 
O joy foi- a yearning heart too great, 

<) union for the parted I 

"We rose \\\^ in the night, 

The morning star was shining ; 
We carried the child in its slumber light 

Out by the myrtles twining: 
Orion tner the sea hung bright, 

Anil glorious in declining. 

Mother, to meet her son. 

Smiled lirst, then wept the rather; 
And wife, to l)ind U}) those links undone, 

And cherished words to gather, 
And to show the face of her little one, 

That had never seen its father. 

Tliat cottage in a chine. 

We were iu)t to behold it ; 
But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, 

IM.iy freshest Howers enfold it, 
For sake of the news which our hearts must twin« 

With the bower where we were told it 1 



pp./tsKpnoNS. ififi 

Now oft, K'ft, }il(»ji(^ !i|;iiin, 

Hit niotiicr uiid sit diui^litor, 
\\u\ hIcHs dm jrocxl Hlii|> lli.'il. Hiiilt'd over tlio rniiir. 

Ami (lie r.-ivoririf^ wIikIh (Jial hroii^lil. Iicr ; 
^'llilt' Hi ill Home new Ixjiiit y \\\v^ Jablo uud IcigB 

For tho oottago by tho vvnter. 



TKIlSl'll'IIONK. 

Written for Tim I'oiiriroi.io HdciiCTr. Jniinnry, IHOB. 
di<f{)ect t/lven—" UylU unit Hhadt." 

Sine Hto)»|tc<I ii[ion Si(^ili;in ^i-.'ihh, 
DciiK'Icr's (l;i,ii;^li(.('r IitkIi uimI luir, 

A <'liil<l of liglil., !i rii<ii;Mil. Ijihh, 

And ^iitii(>Hotn« .'iH tJu! tnoi'iiitig air. 

'Flic (TilTodilH \V('i(( fjiir (<» hcc, 

I'lu-y nodded lii^lilly on (luj lea, 

PorH<'j)liono — I'lfrHcplioiio I 

Lo ! on(i hIu^ marked of ntfer growth 

Than oreJiiH or atienione ; 
For it, llm maiden left, llwui Ixdli, 

And "ailed IVoiii lier company. 
I)ia,\vn nigli nlw. <ieemed it lairer still. 
And Hlooped to gather liy tho rill 
Tho (lall'odil, tho dalVodii. 

What aihfd tho rncadow tliat itHliook? 

What ailed tho air of Sicily ? 
Bhe wondered l»y the hraflling l)roolc, 

And treml>ie<| with IIk? tremhiing left. 
"Tho ooaMjIack liorHCM rine — they riHe : 
O molher, molherl" low hIio crioa — 
I'orHophotio — i'orsoplKjiio I 

" () light, light, light I " kIio crioH, " farewell 

The eoal l»la.-k liorKes wait for mo. 
O Hhado of HhadcH, wlmre 1 muHt dwell. 



I 



184 PERSEPHONE. 

Demeter, motlior, far from thee ) 
Ab, fated doom tliat I fulfill ! 
Ah, fateful flower beside the rill I 
The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 

What ails her that she comes not home? 

Demeter seeks her far and -wide, 
And gloou\y-browed doth ceaseless roam 

From many a morn till eventide. 
"My life, immortal though it be, 
Is naught," she cries, *' for want of thee, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

"Meadows of Enna, let the rain 
No longer drop to feed your rills. 

Nor dew refresh the fields again, 
Willi all their nodding daffodils I 

Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, 

Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from m«< 

Persephone — Persephone 1 " 



She reigns upon her dusky throne, 

']\Iid siiades of heroes dread to see ; 
Among the dead she breathes alone, 

Persephone — Persephone ! 
Or seated on the Elysian hill 
She dreams of earthly daylight etill, 
And murmurs of the daffodjl. 

A voice in Hades soundeth clear, 
The shadows mourn and flit below ; 

It cries — " Thou Lord of Hades, hear, 
And let Den\eter's daughter go. 

The tender corn upon the lea 

Droops in her goddess gloom when shs 

Cries for her lost Persephone. 

**Frora land to land she raging flies, 

The green fruit falleth in her wakeu 
And harvest fields beneath her eyes 



PERSEPItO^E. a^ 

To earth tlie grain unripenefl sliake, 
Arise, and set tlie maiden free ; 
Why slioiild tlie world siuOi sorrow dree 
By reason oC Persejihune i"' 

He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds : 
"Love, eat with \\\(\ this ])arting <hiy ;** 

Then bids them fetch the coal-black steedg-^ 
" Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?'* 

Tho gates of Hades set her free ; 

"She will retui-n full soon," said ho — 

" My wife, my wife Persephone." 

Low laughs tho dai-k king on his throne — 
" I gave her of pomegi-aiiate seeds." 

Demeter's daughter stands alone 
Upon the fair P^leusian meads. 

Her mother iiieet s her. " Hail," saith she { 

"And doth our daylight dazzle thee. 

My love, my child Perseijhone 1 

" What moved thee, daugliter, to forsake 

Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn. 
And give thy dark lord the power to takt 

Thee living to his realm forlorn?" 
Iler lips reply without her will. 
As one addressed who slumbereth still — 
« The daffodil — the daffodil 1 " 

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, 
And sunny wafts that round her stir. 

Her cheek upon her mother's breast — 
Demeter's kisses comfort her. 

Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she 

Wlio stepped so lightly on the lea — 

Persephone — Persephone ? 

When, in her destined course, the moon 
Meets the deep shadow of this world, 
And laboring on doth seem to swoou 



A SkA SONG. 

Through awful wastes of dimness whirled - 
Emerged at length, no trace hath she 
Of that dark hour of destiny, 
Still silvery sweet — Persephone. 

The greater world may near the less, 

And dra^v it through her weltering shade^ 

But not one biding trace impress 
Of all the darkness that she made ; 

Tlie greater soul that draweth thee 

Hath left his shadow plain to see 

On thy dear face, Persephone 1 

Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well 
The wife should love her destiny : 

They part, and yet, as legends tell, 
She mourns her lost Persephone ; 

While chant the maids of Enna still -^ 

" O fateful flo(\^er beside the rill — 

The daffodil, the daffodil ! » 



A SEA SONG. 

Old Albion- sat on a crag of late, 
And sung out — "Ahoy ! ahoy 1 
Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate, 
And this to my sailor boy I 
Come over, come home, 
Through the salt foam. 
My sailor, my sailor boy I 

** Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, 

A crown for my sailor's head, 
And all for the worth of a widowed queen. 
And the love of the noble dead. 
And the fear and fame 
Of the island's name 
Where my boy was born and Ired, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 187 

"Content tlioe, content tliec, let it alone, 

TliDU markefl for a choice so rare ; 
Tlioiijjjii treaties 1)(! tn^aties, n(^vor a thron6 
Was proirei'ed for e.aiise aB fair. 
Yet come to me liomo, 
Tlir()ii!;;li I lie salt sea foam, 
For lliu (ireelv. must ask elsewhere, 

"''Pis pity, my sailor, btit who can tell? 

Many lands tliey look to mo ; 
One of tlu'se mi^lit be wanting a Prince as woU, 
But tliat's as liereafter may be." 
She raised her white; head 
And laughed ; and slu! said, 
'* That's as hereafter may be." 



BRO'rilKRS, AND A SERMON. 

Ir was a village built in a green rent, 
Between two cHH's that skirt the dan^jerous bay. 

A recif of l(;vel rock runs out to sea. 
And you may lie on it and look shciT down, 
.Inst where? the; " (Trace of Sunderland " was lost. 
And se(! the elastic, banners of the dulse 
Rock softly, and th<! orangf; star-fish creep 
Across the laver, and thti maekerei .^hoot 
Over and under it, like silver boats 
Turning at will and plying niuler water. 

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, 

My brother and I, and half the village lads. 

For an old iisherman had (%alled to us 

With "Sirs, the syle be come." "And what ara 

they?"_ 
My brotlu^r said. "Good lack I " the old man cried, 
And shook his head ; "to think you gentlefolk 
rJh'juld ask what syle be ! Look you ; 1 cax»'t say 



188 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, 
Nor what name God Almighty calls them by 
AVhen tlieir food's ready and lie sends them south j 
But our folks call them syle, and naught but syle, 
And when they're grown, why then we call them her 

ring. _ 
I tell you, Sir, the water is as full 
Of them as pastures be of blades of grass ; 
You'll draw a score out in a landing net, 
And none of them be longer than a pin. 

" Syle I ay, indeed, we should be badly off, 
I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," 
He grumbled on in his quaint piety, 
*' And all his other birds, if lie should say 
I will not drive my syle into the south ; 
The fisher folk may do without my syle, 
And do M'ithout the shoals of fish it draws 
To follow and feed on it." 

This said, we made 
Our peace with him by means of two small coins, 
And down we ran and lay upon, the reef, 
And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, 
In separate shoals, the scarcel}^ turning ebb 
]>ringing them in ; while sleek, and not intent 
On chase, but taking that which came to hand. 
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam 
Between ; and settling on the polished sea, 
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly 
In social rings, and tw^ittered while they fed. 
The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, 
Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; 
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, 
And when they heaved and floundered on the rock 
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat 
Sjme shaggy pup would deal, then back away, 
At distance eye them with sagacious doubt. 
And shrink half frightened from the slippery things 
And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the fiow 



BliOriiERi>, AN J A SERMOJ\f. Vi 

Rose high enough to flrivo us from the reef; 
The fislier lads went hoiiu' across tlie sand ; 
y\ii clinibed the cliir, and sat an hour or more, 

/j .bilking and looking down. It was not talk 
iOf much significance, exce])t for this — 
'{'hat we had mt)re in conunon than of old. 
For both Avere tired, 1 with overwork, 
He with inaction ; I was glad at heart 
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear 
That he could grumble to, and half in jest 
Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, 
And the misfortune of a good estate — 
Misfortune that was sure to j)ull him down, 
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man : 
Indeed he felt liimself deteriorate 
Already. Thcreu[)on he sent down showers 
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words. 
And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily 
Into the seething wave. And as for me^ 
I railed at him and at ingratitude. 
While rirting of the basket he had slung 
Across his shoulders ; then with right good will' 
We fell to M'ork, and feasted like the gods, 
Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk 
At Yuletide dinner ; or, to say the whole 
At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, 
IFntil the jueal being o'er, the tilted tlask 
Drained of its latest drop, tlie meat and bread 
And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs 

' j\Ium])rnig the bones, this elder brother of mine — 
This man that never felt an ache or ])ain 
In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew 
The tr<)ul)le of an nnforgiven grudge, 
The sting of a regretted meanness, nor 
The dcs[)erate struggle of the unendowed 
For place and for possession — he began 
To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought { 
Sending it out with cogitative pause, 
As if the scene where lie had shaped it fii-st 
Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it 



140 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 

Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind 
Whether his dignity it well beseemed 
To sing of pretty maiden : 

Goldilocks sat on the grass, 

Tying up of posies rare ; 
Hardly could a sunbeam pas« 

Through the cloud that was her hair. 
Purple orchis lastetli long, 

Primrose flowers are pale and clear; 
O the maiden sang a song 

It Avould do you good to hear I 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 

*' Goldilocks that I love well, 
Happy creature fair and coy, 

Think o' me, Sweet Amabel,'* 
Goldilocks she shook apart, 

Looked Avith doubtful, doubtful ejres ^ 
Like a blossom on her heart 

Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace, 

Goldilocks, ah, fall and flow 
On the blooming childlike face, 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time ; on grass and sky " 

Let lier gaze if she be fain : 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They will never look again. 

Ah ! the playtime she has known, 

While her goldilocks grew long, 
[f it like a nestling flown, 

Childhood over like a song ? 
ITes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Though she thinks to say him naj 
fThen she sighs, '• I cannot now — 

Come again some other day." 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON: l41 

** Hold there ! " ho craul, half angry with himself ; 

" Tliat ending goes amiss : " then turned again 

To the old argument that Ave had held — 

"Now look you ! " said my brother, " you may talk 

Till, weary of the talk, I answer ' Ay, 

There's reason in your words ; ' and you may talk 

Till I go on to say, ' This should he so ; ' 

And you may talk till 1 shall further own 

* It is so ; yes, I am a lucky dog I ' 

Yet not the less shall I next morning wake, 
And with a natural and fervent sigh, 
Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 

* What an unlucky dog I am ! ' " And here 
lie broke into a laugh. "But as for you — 
You ! on all hands you have the best of me ; 

Men have not robbed you of your birthright — work. 

Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field. 

Nor wedded heiresses against their will, 

Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stoojicd, nor overreached 

That you might drone a useless life away 

'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms 

And half a dozen bogs.'* 

** O rare ! " I cried ; 
" His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent : 
Now we behold how far bad actions reach 1 
Because five hundred years ago a Knight 
Drove geese and beeves out trom a franklin's yard ; 
Because three hundred years ago a squire — 
Against her will, and for her fair estate — 
JMarried a very ugly, red-hairod maid, 
The blest inheritor of all their pelf, 
AVhile in the full enjoyment of the same, 
Sighs on his own confession every day. 
lie cracks no ^^^^ without a moral sigh. 
Nor eats of beef but thinking on that wrong ; 
Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, 
And shame their ancient pride, if they should know^ 
Works hard as any horse for his degree. 
And takes to writing veree«.'* 



142 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 

" Ay,** lie iiati 
Half laugliing at himself. " Yet you and I, 
But for those tresses Avhich enrich us yet 
With somewhat of tlie hue that paitial fame 
Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, 
But when it flames round brows of younger sons, 
Just red — mere red ; why, but for this, I say. 
And but for selfish getting of the land, 
And beggarly entailing it, we two. 
To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well lead^ 
We might have been two horny-handed boors — 
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors — 
Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, 
Or soiling our dull souls and consciences 
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost, 

" What chorus 1 are you dumb ? you should have 

cried, 
* So good comes out of evil ; ' " and with that. 
As if all pauses it was natural 
To seize for songs, his voice broke out again : 

Coo, dove, to thy unmarried mate — • 
She has too warm eggs in her nest : 

Tell her the hours are few to wait 
Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 

And thy young shall peck at the shells, elato 
With a dream of her brooding breast. 

Coo, dove, for she counts the hours. 

Her fair wings ache for flight : 
By day the apple has grown in the flowers. 

And the moon has grown by night, 
And the white drift settled from haw^thorn bowers, \ 

Yet they will not seek the light. 

Coo, dove ; but what of the sky ? 

And what if the storm-wind sw^ell. 
And the reeling branch come down from on higli 



BROTHERS, AND A SRRMO^, 143 

To the grass wliere daisies dwell, 
And the brood beloved should with them lie 
Or ever they break the shell ? 

Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower, 

Like fate, on the far off-sea ; 
Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, 

As on wing of destiny. 
Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, 

As they broke over mine and me ? 

iVKat next ? — we started like to girls, for lo ! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, 
Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud, 
*' G('od lack ! how sweet the gentleman does sing — 
So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. 
Why, Mike's a child to him, a two-years child — 
A Chrisom child." 

" Who's Mike ? " my brother growled 
A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman — 
" Mike, Sir ? he's just a fisher lad, no more ; 
But he can sing when he takes on to sing, 
So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire 
But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, 
JL'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate. 
As we were shoving off the mackerel boats. 
Said he, ' I'll wager that's the sort o' song 
They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea.' " 

" There, fisherman, " quoth I, " he showed his wit, 
Your mate ; he marked the sound of savage war — 
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, 
And ' murderous messages,' delivered by 
Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." 

" Ay, ay, Sir ! " quoth the fisherman. " Have done 1 *" 
My brother. And I — " The gift belongs to few 
Of sending farther than the words can reach 
Their spirit and e;cpre98ioii \ " still " Have done \ ** 



144 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

He cried ; and then " I rolled the rubblsli out 

More loudly than the meaning warranted, 

To air my lungs — I thought not on the words. *• 

Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, 

" So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll hear him, Sir, 

Please God you live till Sunday. " 

" Even so : 
And yon, too, fi-*herraan ; for here, they say. 
You all are church-goers. " 

« Surely, Sir, " quoth he^ 
Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head 
And wrinkled face ; then sitting by us said, 
As one that utters with a quiet mind 
Unchallenged truth — " ' Tis lucky for the boats. " 

The boats ! 'tis lucky for the boats ! Our eyes 
"Were drawn to him as either fain would say, 
What ! do they send the psalm up in the spire 
And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats ? 
But he, the brown old man, the wiinkled man, 
That all his life had been a church-goer, 
Familiar with celestial cadences. 
Informed of all he could receive, and sure 
Of all he understood — he sat content, 
And we kept silence. In his reverend face 

There was a simpleness we could not sound ; 
Much truth had passed him overliead ; some erroi 
He had trod under foot ; — God comfort him 1 
Ho could not learn of us, for we wci-e young 
And he was old, and so we gave it up ; 
And the sun went into the west, and down 
Upon the water stooped an orange cloud. 
And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad 
To wear its colors ; and the sultry air 
Went out to sea, and puffed the sa'ls of ships 
With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grawj : 



BkOTHERS, AND A SERMON'. I4ft 

It took moreover music, for across 
The beaiber belt and over pasture land 
Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, 
And parted time into divisions rare, 
Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. 

•I They ring for service," quoth the fisherman ; 
*' Our parson preaches in the church to-niglit." 

" And do the people go ? " my brother asked. • 

" Ay, Sir ; they count it mean to stay away, 
He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man. 
Our parson ; half a head above us all." 

" That's a great gift, and notable," said L 

** Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man 
He went out in the life-boat very oft, 
Before the ' Grace of Sundorland ' was wrecked. 
He's never been his own man since that hour ; 
For there were tliirty men aboard of her, 
Anigh as close as you are now to me, 
And ne'er a one was saved. 

They're lying now, 
With two small children, in a row : the churcb 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
Have any names. 

She bumped upon the reef ; 
Our parson, my young son, and several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch rope. 
And crept along to her ; their mates ashore 
Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, 
The sea was ,all a boiling, seetiiing froth, 
And God Ahnighty's guns were going off. 
And the land trembled. 

*' When she took the groasidi 
She "went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that^ 



146 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

The captain reeled on deck Avith two small things. 
One in each arm — his little lad and lass, 
riieir hair was long, and blew before his face, 
l)r else we thought he had been saved ; he fell, 
l>ut held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls I 
The breakers licked them off ; and some were crushe*^ 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, 
The dear breath beaten out of them : not one 
Jupiped from the wreck upon the reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back 
Witli eyes wide open. But the captain lay 
And clung — the only man alive. They jirayed — • 
* For God's sake, captain, throw the children here ! * 
'Throw them! ' our parson cried; and then she struck? 
And he threw one, a pretty two-years child ; 
But the gale dashed hifn on the slippery verge, 
And down he went. They sn,y they heard him cry, 

"Then he i-ose up and took the other one, 
And all our men reached out their hungry arms. 
And cried out, 'Throw her I ' and he did : 
He threw her right against the parson's breast, 
A.nd all at once the sea broke over them. 
And tliey that saw it from the shore have said 
It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it. 
Just as a women might the lump of salt 
That 'twixt her hands into the kneading-pan 
*^he breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. 

*^We hauled our men in ; two of them were dead — 
The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down ; 
Our parson's arms wei'c empty, for the wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her grave : 
But 'tAvas no fault of his, no fault of his. 

**I ask your pardon. Sirs ; I prate and prate, 
And never have I said what brought me here j 
Sirs, if yO'i want a boat to-morrow morn, 
I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine.* 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 14^ 

" Ay that was what we wanted," we replie*i ; 
« A boat, his boat ; " and off he went, well pleased 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky- 
Flushed our faces), and went sauntering on, 
And tliought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. 
And up and down among the heatlier beds, 
And up and down between the sheaves, we sped. 
Doubling and winding ; for a long ravine 
Ran up into the land and cut us off, 
Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. 
And rent with many a crevice, Avhere the wind 
Had laid up drifts of empty egg-shells, swept 
From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. 

So as it chanced we lighted on a path 
That led into a nutwood ; and our ta*'k 
AVas louder than beseemed, if we had known, 
With argument and laughter ; for the p^ith, 
As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 
Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, 
And close upon a porch, and face to face 
With those within, and with the thirty graves. 

We heard the voice of one who preachec? within, 
And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered 



me 



JliU , 

*'• Ifc were more decent that we enter now ; 
Come on ! we'll hear this rare old demigod : 
I like strong men and large ; I like gray heads, 

\nd grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be 

«Vith shouting in the storm." 

It was not. hoarse. 
The voice that preached to those few fishermen, 
And women, nursing mothers with the babes 
Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it held them not 
Tlieir drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, 
Till, having leaned our rods against the wall. 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat. 



148 BROTHERS, AND A SERMOJ^. 

And were apprised that, though he saw us not» 

The parson knew that he had lost the eyes 

And ears of those before hiui, for he made 

A pause — a long dead pause — and dropped hi 

arms, 
And stood awaiting, till I felt the red 
Mount to my brow. 

And a soft fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and every mother hushed 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, 
But diffident of his ; then with a sigli 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, 
And said, as one that pondered now the words 
He had been preaching on with new surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound, "Behold ! 
Behold 1 " saith He, *' I stand at the door and knock." 

Then said the parson : " What ! and shall lie wait, 

And must He wait, not only till we say, 

• Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept, 

The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, 

And all the nets are mended ; thcrefoie ] 

Will slowly to the door and open it ; ' 

But must He also wait where still, behold ! 

He stands and knocks, wliile we do say, ' Good Lordi 

The gentlefolk are come to worshi]) here, 

And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 

But fii'st I p'"ay a little longer wait, 

For I am taken up with tlicm ; my eyes 

Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, 

And count the gains I think to make by them ; 

Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord I 

Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord! 

Or come again ? ' 

" What 1 must He wait for this — 
For this ? Ay, H« doth wait for this, and gtill. 
Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not i 



BROTHERS, AXD A SERMON. 14S 

Waiting for this, e't-n this He saitli, ' Behold 1 
I stand at tlie door and knock.' 

" O patient hand 
Knocking and waiting — knociking in tlie nigljt 
AV^hcn work is done ! I charge yon, by the sea 
Wiiereby you fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of Ilim tliat made it — fishermen 1 
I charge you, motliei-s ! by the mother's milk 
lie drew, and by IIis Father, God over all, 
Blessed forever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned * 
if ye be sorry, open it witli sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty, 
x\nd comfortless for lack of plenishing. 
Be not abashed for that, but open it, 
And take Him in that comes 1o sup with tiiee ; 
' Behold ! ' He saith, ' I stand at the door and knock 

"Now, hear me : there be troubles in tliiw world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 
That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 
Concerning that which is to come : — 



'& 



"I say- 
As a man that knows vv^hat earthly trouble means, 
I will not bear this one — I cannot bear 
This ONE — I cannot bear the weight of you — ■ 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; 
You, with the care you suffer, and the loss 
That you sustain ; you, with the groAving up 
To peril, maybe with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great white throne, I may be free of all, 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 
Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 
A day, for every time the black clouds rise. 
And the gale freshens, still I search my soul 
To find if there be aught that can persuade 
To goml, or aught forsooth that can beguile 



150 BROrilERS, AXD A SERMON. 

From t'vil, tliat I (miserable imui ! 

If tliat be so) have left untsaid, undone. 

" 80 that when any risen from sunken wrecks, 

Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 

Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea 

Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may sav 

N(>ver, ' Old man, you told us not of this ; 

\'ou left us tisher-lads that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger*, wind* 

Of breath more murderous than the cannon's ; wav<*s 

Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs 

Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : 

This crime be on your head ; and as for us — 

What, shall we do?' but ratlier — nay, not so, 

1 will not think it ; I will leave the dead, 

Appealing but to life : I am afraid 

01 you, but not so much if you have sinned 

As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 

The day M'as, I have been afraid of pride — 

Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid 

Of man's humility. I counsel you, 

13}^ the great God's great humbleness, and by 

His pity, be not humble over-much. 

8ee ! I will show at whose nnoi)encd doors 

lie stands and knocks, that }ou may never say, 

' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 

He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.* 

" See here ? it is the night ! it is the night ! 
And snow lies thickh^, white untrodden snow. 
And the Man moon u]>ou a casement shines — 
A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, 
'J'hat make her ray less bright upon the floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, 
Poor tired soul ! and she has caught to do, 
For there is neither fire nor candle light : 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth j 
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago ; 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 181 

* 

;L'r cliildreii wall a little \\\ tlieir sleop 
For cold and liiiDgor ; and, as if that sound 
Was not onongii, anothor comes to her, 
Over God's iindeiilt^d snow — a sonj^ — ■ 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. 






And doth she curse the alehouse, and tiie sots 
That drink the night out and theii- e.irning tliere 
And drink their manly strengtli niul coinnge d(\sJi, 
And diiuk away the little children's bread, 
And starve her, starving by the self-same act 
Her tender suckling, that with piteous eyes 
Looks in her face, till scarcely she h:is heart 
To work and earn the scanty bit and drop 
M'liat feed the others? 

" Does she curse the song ? 
I tliink not, fishermen ; I have not heard 
Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing. 
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — 
A bitter thing, l)ut meant for an excuse ■ — 
' My master is not worse than many nuMi : ' 
Bat now, ay now, she sitteth dumb and still ; 
NTo food, no comfort, cold and poverty 
Bearing her down. 

" My lieart is sore for her ; 
Mow long, how long ? When troubles come of God, 
WhcJi men are frozen out of work, when wives 
Are sick, wlieu working fathers fnil and die, 
When ])oats go down at sea — then naught behoove* 
Like patience ; but for troubles wrought of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. 

" O thou poor soul ! it is tlie night — the night •, 
Against (by door drifts up the silent snow, 
Blocking thy threshold : ' Fall,' thou sayest, * fall, fai 
Cold snow, and lie and be trod uiulerfoot. 
Am not I fallen ? wake up and pipe, wind, 



163 BROTH Ens, AND A SERMON. 

Dull Avind, and beat and bluster at n\^ door : 

Merciful Avind, sing me a hoarse rough song, 

For there is other music made to night 

That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still se«^ 

Heavily plunge. Shoot on, Avhite -waterfall. 

O, I could long like thy icicles 

Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift 

And not complain, so I might melt at last 

In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do I 

" ' But woe is me ! I think there is no sun ; 
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: 
None care for me. The children cry for bread, 
And I have none, and naught can comfort me ; 
Even if the heavens were free to such as I, 
It were not much, for death is long to wait, 
And heaven is far to go I ' 

*' And speak'st thou thus^ 
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, 
And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, 
And of the heaven that lieth far from thee ? 
Peace, peace, fond fool ! One draweth near thy dow 
Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow : 
Tliy sun has risen with comfort in his face, 
The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart 
And bless with saintly hand. What ! is it long 
To wait, and far to go ? Thou shalt not go ; 
Behold, across the snow to thee He comes. 
Thy heaven descends ; and is it long to wait ? 
Thou shalt not wait : ' This night, this night,' He saitL. 
• I stand at the door and knock.' 

" It is enough — can such an one be here — 
Yea, here ? O God forgive you fishermen 1 
One ! is there only one ? But do thou know, 
O woman pale for want, if thou art here. 
That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven , 
And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, 
One standeth patient, Avatching in the night, 
And waiting in the day-time. 



SHOTI/ERS. AND A SERMON. 16* 

« What shall be 
If thou wilt answer? lie will Hinile on thee ; 
One smile of His shall he enough to heal 
The wound of man's neglect ; and lie will sigh, 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; 
And lie will speak — speak in the desolate night. 
In the dark night : * For me a thorny crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands 
And feet : there was an earthquake, and I died ; 
I died, and am alive forevermore. 

" * I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, 
And my humanity doth mourn for thee. 
For thou art mine ; and all thy little ones, 
Tiiey. too are mine, are mine. Behold, the house 
Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons 
Of God are singing ; and, behold, the heart 
Is troubled : yet the nations walk in white : 
They have forgotten how to wee[) ; and thou 
Shalt also come, and I will foster thee 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt warm 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, aiul I will comfort thee ; 
I go away, but I will come again,' 

* But hear me yet. There was a poor old man 

Who sat and listened to the raging sea, 
And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs 
As like to tear them down. He lay at night ; 
And 'Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 

* That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine I 
For when the gale gets up, and when the wind 
Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, 

And lulls, and stops, and rouses up again, 
And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave, 
And scatters it like feathers up the held. 
Why, then I think of my two lads : my lads 
That would have worked and never let me want| 
And never let me take the parish pay. 



1^4 BA'd^n/ERS, AXD A SEJ^MOM 

No, none of mine : ray lads were drowned at sea, 

My two — before tlie most of these were borru 

I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife 

Walked up and down, and still walked up and dowo. 

And I walked after, and one could not hear 

A word the other said, for wind and sea 

That raged and beat and thundered in the night — 

The awfuk^t, the longest, lightest night 

That ever paients had to spend — a moon 

That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 

Ah me ! and other men have lost their lads. 

And other women wiped their poor dead mouths. 

And got them home and dryed them in the houM^ 

And seen the driftwood lie along the coast 

That was a tidy boat but one day back, 

And seen next tide the neighbors gather it 

To lay it on their fires. 

" ' Ay, I was strong 
And able-bodied — loved my work ; — but now 
I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk ; 
I am in all men's way ; I trouble them j 
I am a trouble to myself ; but yet 
I feel for mariners of stormy nights, 
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, »y I 
If I had learning I would pray the Lord 
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; 
Book-learning is a Avorld too hard for me : 
But I make bold to say, O Lord, good Lord, 
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool 
To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ. 
As I hear say from others that can read. 
How, when Thou coinest, Thou didst love the 861^ 
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure 
Thou knowest all the peril they go through. 
And all their trouble. 

" * As for me, good Lor^ 
I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
Mj lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wif« ; 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMOIf. IM 

My little lasses died so long ago 
That mostly I forget Avliat they were like. 
Tliou knowest, Lor 1 : they were such little onoi 
I know they went to thee, but I forget 
Their faces, through I missed them sore. 

** * O Lord, 
I was a strong man ; I have drawn good food 
And made good money out of Thy great sea : 
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now, 
Although I be so old, I miss my lads, 
And there be many folk this stormy night 
Heavy Avith fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, 
Comfort them ; save their honest boys, their pride, 
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, 
Best sound — the boat keels grating on the sand. 

*'* I cannot pray with finer ^vwrds : I know 
Nothing ; I have no learning, cannot learn — 
Too old, too old. They say I want for naught, 
I have the parish pay ; but I am dull 
Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. 
God save me — I have been a sinful man — 
And save the lives of them that still can work. 
For they are good to me ; ay, good to me. 
But, Lord, I am a trouble ! and I sit, 
And I am lonesome, and the nights are few 
That any think to come and draw a chair. 
And sit in my poor place and talk awhile. 
Why should they come, forsooth ? Only the wind 
Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, 
The only thing God made that has a mind 
To enter in.' 

" Yea, thus the old man spake ; 
These were the last words of his aged mouth — 
But One did knock. One came to sup with him, 
That humble, weak old man ; knocked at hib door 
In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. 
( tell you that One knocked while it was dark, 



m BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Save where their foaming passion had made whit« 
Those livid seething billows. What He said 
In that poor place where He did talk awhile 
cannot tell ; but this 1 am assured, 
^t when the neighbors came the morrow morn, 
Wliat time the wind had bated, and the sun 
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile 
He passed away in, and they said, ' He looks 
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, 
And with that rapturous smile held out his armi 
To come to him ! ' 

" Can such an one be here. 
So old, so weak, so ic noraut, so frail ? 
The Lord be good to .^ee, thou poor old man ; 
It would be hard with t^^ if heaven were shut 
To such as have not learning * Kay, nay, nay, 
He condescends to them of low estate : 
To such as are despised J^Ie coraeth down, 
Stands at the door and knocks. 

" Yet bear with me. 
I have a message ; I have more to say. 
Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin — 
That burden ten times heavier to be borne ? 
What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care 
Alone? O virtuous women, tliink not scorn, 
For you may lift your faces everywhere ; 
And now that it grows dusk, and I can see 
None though they front me straight, I fain would teQ 
A certain thing to you, I say to you y 
And if it doth concern you, as methinka 
It doth, then surely it concerneth all. 
I say that there was once — I say not her© — 
I say that there was once a castaway, 
And she was weejnng, weeping bitterly ; 
Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry 
That choked itself in sobs — ' O my good name! 
O my good name ! ' And none did hear her cry I 
Nay ; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell. 
And the rain splashed upon the rocf, and still 



BROTHERS, AXD A SLkAJCN. lo7 



SI.e, storm-tost as tht; storming elements — 

She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 

' O Miy good name ! ' xViid then the thunder-cloud 

Stooped low and b*urst in darkness overhead. 

And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shool 

The frail foundations of her dwelling-place 

But she — if any neighbor had come in 

{Noi:e did) : if any neighbors had come in, 

They might have seen her crying on her knees, 

And sobbing, ' Lost, lost, h^t ! ' beating her breast — 

Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns, 

Tlie wounds whereof could neither balm assuage 

Nor any patience heal — beating her brow. 

Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide 

From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt 

" O ye good women, it is hard to leave 
Tne paths of virtue, and return again. 
What if this sinner wept, and none of you 
Comforted her ? And what if she did strive, 
To mend, and none of you believed her strife, 
Nor looked upon her ? Mark, I do not say. 
Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame 
That she had aught against you, though your feel 
Never drew near her door. But I beseech 
Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem 
A woman kneeled at consecrated feet. 
Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. 

What tht* 
1 think that yet our Lord is pitiful : 
I think I see the castaway e'en now ! 
And she is not alone : the heavy rain 
Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, 
But she is lying at the sacred feet 
Of One transfigured. 

"And her tears flow down, 
Down to her lips — her lips that kiss the print 
Of nails ; and love is like to break her heart • 
Love and repentanos — for it still doth work 



158 BKOTI^EkB, ANb A SERMOk. 

Sore in her soul to tliink, to tliiiik that she, 
Even she, did pierce the sacred, raercd feet, 
And bruise the tliorn-crowned head. 

" O Lord, our Lord, 
How gref.,t is TI>y compassion ! Conic, good Lord_ 
For we will open. Come tl)is night, good lj<n'd. 
Stand at the door and knock. 

" And is this all \ 
Trouble, old age and sinipleness, and sin — 
This all ? It might be all some other night ; 
But this night, ii" a voice said, ' Give account 
Whom hast thou with thee ? ' then must I )"eply, 
' Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strengit 
Rich with all treasure drawn uj) from the crypt 
Where lies the learning of the ancient world — 
Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon 
The strand of life, as driftweed after stoi'ms : 
Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, 
And the dread jiurity of Alpine snows, 
Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed 
Forages from maidvind — outlying worlds, 
And many mooned spheres — and Thy great stOTA 
Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here 
Powders the pale leaves of auriculas. 

'' ' This do J inow, but, Lord, I know not more. 

'Not more concerning them — concerning Thee, 
1 tnow Thy bounty ; where 'J^hou givest much 
Standing without, if any call Thee in 
Thou givest more.' Speak, tlun, O rich and sfrcnj 
Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand 
Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear ; 
The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, 
The woumled heart forevermore withdraw.''* 

I have heard many speak, but this one man — ' 
So anxious not to go to heaven alone — 
This one man I remember, and his look, 



A WEDDING SONG. 161 

Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased, 

And out in darkness witli the fisher folk 

We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, 

And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. 

Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain 

From the diui storehouse of sensations past 

The impress full of tender awe, that night, 

Wh'ch fell on me ! It was as if the Christ 

Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home 

And any of the footsteps following us 

Might have been His. 



A WEDDING SONG. 

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, 

My Dane with the beautiful eyes ! 
Thousands and thousands await thee full faiii, 

And talk of the wind and the skies. 
Fear not from folk and from country to part, 

O, I swear it is wisely done ; 
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart. 

As becometh my father's son. 

Great London was shouting as I went down, 

« She is worthy/' I said,'"" of this ; 
What shall I give who have promised a crown? 

O, first I will give her a kiss." 
So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane^ 
. Thrcu«;h the waving wonderful crowd : 
'■' housands and thousands, they shouted amain, 
j Like mighty thunders and loud. 

And they said, " He is young, the lad we love. 

The heir of the Isles is young : 
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, 

Can neither be said nor sung. 
He brings us a pledge — he will do his part 

With the best of his race and name ; — " 
And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart. 

As may suit with my mother's fame. 



im THE FOUR BRIDGET 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

E LOVE thi-^ gi'^'iy old cliurclij tlie low, lung nave 
The ivied chancel and the slender spire ; 

No less its shadow on each lieaviiig grnve, 
Witl) growing osier boiiiul, or living brier ; 

I love those yew-tree tiunks, where stand arrayx 

So many deep-cut najiies of youth and maid. 

A simple custom this — I love it well — 
A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth ; 

How many an eve, their linked names to spell, 
Beneath the }ew-trees sat our village youth 1 

When work was over, and the new-cut hay 

Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. 

Ah ! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, 
Some village hind has beckoned me aside, 

And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward ioy 
To carve the letters of his rustic bride, 

And make them clear to read as graven stone, 

Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. 

For none could carve like me, and here they stand 
Fathers and mothei-s of the prisent I'ace ; 

And underscored by some less practiced hand, 
That fain the story of its line would trnce, 

With cliildren's names, and number, and the day 

When any called to God have passed away. 

I look upon them, and I turn asi<]e, 

As oft when carving them I did erewliile ; 
And there I see those \\ oodcn bi'idgcs wide 
That cross the marshy hollow ; there the stile 
In reeds imbedded, and the swelliiig down, 
And the white road toward the distant town. 

Bi'.t those old bridges claim anotlier look. 

Our brattling river tumbies4hrongl'i. the one ; 
The .second spans a sliallow, weedy brook , 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 161 

Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, 
Lie two k)ng stilly jxjols, and on their hrea'-ts 
Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' neata 

And round about tJiem grows a fringe of reeds, 
And then a Hoating crown of lily rtowei-p, 

And yet within small silver-budded weeds ; 
But each clear center evermore embowers 

A deeper sky, where, stooi)ing, you may see 

The little minnows darting restlessly. 

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; 

Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? 
Why in your beauty are you thus complete, 

You silver skips — you floating palaces? 
O ! if need be, you must allure man's eye, 
Yet wherefore blossom here ? O why ? O why? 

O 1 O ! the world is wide, you lily flow^ers. 
It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, 

Where every night bathe crowds of stars ; and boAS 
ers 
Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools 

And shakes the lilies among those stars that He : 

Why are not ye content to reig'i there ? Why ? 

That chai|i of bridges, it were hard to tell 
How it is linked with all my early joy. 

There was a little foot that I loved well, 
It danced across them when I was a bov ; 

There was a careless voice that used to sing ; 

There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. 

Oft through that matted wood of oak and bircb 
She came from yonder house upon tlie hill ; 

Siie crossed the wooden bridges to the church, 
And watched, with village girls, my boasted skiil 

But loved to watch the floating lilies best, 

Or linger, peering in a swaUow's nest ; 



163 THt I-'OUR BRIDGES. 

Linger .and linger, with lier wistful eyes 
Drawn to tlie lily-Liuls that lay so white 

And soft on crimson water ; for the skies 

Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright 

Would all he flung among llie flowers sheer doTf»x 

To flush tlie spaces of their clustonng crown. 

Till the green rushes — O, so glo&sy green — ' 

Tlie rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake ; 

And forth on floating gauze, no jeweled queen 
So rich, the green-eyed dragon-Hies Avould break 

And hover on the flowers — aerial things, 

With little rainbows flickei-ing en their wings. 

Ah ! my heart dear ! the ))olished pools lie still, 
Like lanes of water reddened by the w^est. 

Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging liill. 
The bold marsh harrier wets her tawi.y breast ; 

We scared her oft in childhood from J.Oi' prey, 

And the old eager thoughts rise fresh aa yesterday. 

To yonder co])se by moonlight I did go, 

Li luxury t)f misciiief, half afraitl, 
To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snox\-, 

Her screaming imps to seize the while she preyed 
With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, 
Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. 

Panting I lay till her great fanning wings 

Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering 
nigh, 

And she aiul her fierce mate, like evil things, 

Skinnned the dusk fields ; then rising, with a cry 

Of fear, joy, triumidi, darted on my prey, 

And tore it from the nest and fled away. 

But afterward, belated in tlie wood, 

I saw her moping on the rifled tree, 
Ana my heart smote me for her, while I stooO 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 163 

Awakened from my careless reverie ; 
So while slie looked, with moonlie;li(, round her shed, 
So niollicrlike she droi>})ed and hung Jier head 

O that mine eyes would cheat me ! I !)ehold 
The gcxhvits running by (he water cd{»e, 

'^I'he mossy bridges niiiroifd as of otd ; 

The little curlews creeping from the sedge, 

Kut not (lie little foot so gayly light ; 

O that mine eyes would cheat mc, that 1 might I •— 

Would cheat me ! I behold the gable-cnas — 
Those ])ur|»le j>igeons (rnislcring on the oote ; 

The lane with maples overhung, (hat ben^s 
Toward Iht dwelling ; the dry grassy r^.oat, 

Thick miillions, dianiond-lalti"ed, nn)sseO and gray, 

And walls banked up with laurel and witu b;iy. 

And up behind (hem yellow fields of con*. 
And still ascending (H»untless lirry spii'os, 

Dry slopes of hills uncultured, b;ire. io/lorn. 

And green in rocky clefts with whins a,ud briers i 

Then ri*'h (-loud masses dytMl (lu; violet's hue, 

\Vi(h orange sunbeams drop])ing swiVcly through. 

Ay, I behold all this ftdl easily ; 

J\Iy st)ul is jealous of my happier eyes, 
And manhood envies youth. Ad. wtrange t') see, 

liy looking merely, orange-fhx/fied skies ; 
Nay, any dew-drop that mav near me shine: 
But never more the face of kyUntine ! 

She was my one com])anIon, V.eitig herself 
The jewel and adornnu'iit of my <lays. 

My life's completeness. O- ;x smiling elf, 
That I do but dis\)arage with my praise — ■ 

J\Iy playmate ; ind 1 loved lu^r dearly and long, 

And she (oved. \ne, as tho tender love the strong. 

Av, bat uhe ui-ew. r/di on a time there came 
^ Bu<:(d^>i> ititii.it ss yiarning to my heart \ 



164 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

And as we went a-nesting, all for sbame 

And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start ; 
Content departed, comfort shut me out, 
And there was nothint^ left to talk about. 



She was but sixteen yours, and as for me, 

Four added made tny life. This pretty bird, 

This fairy child that I had cherished — she. 
Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. 

The song had ceased ; the bird, with nature's art^ 

Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart. 

The restless birth of love my soul opprest : 
I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, 

And warred with that disquiet in my breast 
As one who knows there is a better way ; 

But, turned against myself, I still in vain 

Looked for the a«cient calm to come again. 

My tirM soul could to itself confess 

That she desprved a Aviser love than mine ; 

To love more truly were to love her less. 
And f'n- this truth 1 still aAvoke to pine : 

I had a dim belief that it would be 

A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me. 

Good hast Thou made them — comforters right sweet. 

Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent \ 
Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat ; 

Good are Thy stars above the finnament. 
Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown ; 
The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy 
crown. 

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, 

Th}'^ bountiful creation is so fair. 
That, drawn before us like the temple veil. 

It hides tlie Holy Place from thought .and care, 
Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, 
Rich as \Fitb cherub wings and apples wrought of goid, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 1«3 

• 

Purple and blue and scarlet — shimmering bells 
And rare pomegranates :;n its broidered rim, 

(ilorious with chain and fret work that the swell 
Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, 

Till rM a day comes loss, that God makes gain. 

And death and darkness rend the veil in twain. 



Ah, sweetest ! my beloved ! each outward thing 
Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee ; 

lirown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, 
Float from yon lianger to their haunted tree, 

And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain 

A ilasliing thought of thee with their remembered 
strain. 

I will not pine — it is the careless brook, 

These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale ; 

It is the long tree-shadows, with their look 
Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail : 

The peace of nature — No, I will not pine — 

But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine 1 

And still I changed — I was a boy no more ; 

My heart was large enough to hold my kind. 
And all the world. As hatu been oft before 

With youth, 1 sought, but I could never find 
"Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, 
And use the strength of action-craving life. 

She, too, was changed : her bountiful sweet eyes 
Looked out full lovingly on all the world. 

O tender as the deeps in yonder skies 

Their beaming ! but her rosebud lips were curled 

With the soft dimple of a musing smile, 

Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the whila 

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain. 

The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, 
lilac pigeons wheeling over tl'Jds of grain. 



:g6 the four bridges. 

• 

Or bleat of folded lamb, would i)lease her well, 
Or cooing of the early coted dove ; — 
She, sauntering, mused of these ; 1, following, musc^,' 
of love. 

With her two lips, that one the other pressed 

So poutingly with such a tranquil aii-, 
Witii her two eyes, that on my own would rest 

So dream-like, she denied my silent ])rayer, 
Fronted unnttered words, and said them nay, 
And smiled down love till it had luiught to say. 

The words that through mine eyes would clearly shiue 
Hovered and liovored on my lips in vain ; 

If after ])ause I said but " Eglantine," 
She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain. 

And looked me this reply — look calm, yet bland — 

" I shall not know, I will not understand." 

Yet she did know my story — knew my life 

Was wrought to hers with bindings many and 
strong ; 

That I, like Isi-ael, served for a wife, 

And for the love I bear her thought not long, 

But only a few days, full quickly told, 

My seven years' service strict as his of old. 

I must be brief : the twilight shadows grow^. 
And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, 

And scented wafts of wind that come and go 
Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads ; 

The seven stars shine out above the mill, 

The dark delightsome Avoods lie veiled and still. 



& 



Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins to sing, 
And stops, as ill contented with lier note ; 

Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing, 
Restless and passionate. She tunes lier throat. 

Laments a while in wavering trills, and then 

Floods with a stream of sweet nc -os a I the gleii. 



tllE FOUR BRIDGES. l67 

Hie seven stars upon the nearest pool 
Lie trembling down betwixt tbe lily leaves, 

And move like glowworms ; wiifting breezes coo (k 
Come down along the water, and it lieaves 

A.nd bubbles in the sedge ; while deep and wide 

The dim night settles on the country side. 

J know this scene by heart. O ! once before 

I saw the seven stars fioat to and fro, 
And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore 

To mark the starry picture spread below : 
Its silence made the tumult in my breast 
M^re audible ; its peace revealed my own unrest. 

I paused, then hurried on ; my heart beat quick ; 

\ crossed the bridges, reached tlie steep ascent, 
And <;Umbed through matted fern and hazels thick ; 

Then dr-xrkling through the close green maples went, 
And s-^w — there felt love's keenest ])angs begin — 
An oriel window lighted froni vvithin : 

I saw — and felt that they were scarcely cares 
Which I ha<l known before. I drew more neaii 

And O ! methougbt how sore it frets and wears 
The soul to part with that it holds so clear : 

'Tis hard two wov^n t.^^ndrils to untwine, 

Aiid I was come to part with Eglantine. 

For life was bitter thr(?up;h those words repressed. 
And youth was burdened with unspoken vows; 

Love unrequited brooded hi my breast, 

And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows ; 

And three long months, hear*,-si«^k, my foot Avithdrai^** 

1 had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawu — 

J«lot sought her side, yet busy 'thoeght no less 
Still followed in her wake, though far behind j 

And I, being parted from lur loveliupss, 
Looked at the picture of her in ray mind : 

I lived alone, I walked with soul opprest. 

And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. 



168 ThE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Then I had risen to struggle with my heart, 

And paid : " O heart ! the world is fresh and fair, 

And I am young ; but this tiiy restless smart 
Changes to bitterness the mornnig air : 

I will, 1 must, these weary fetters break — 

I will be free, if only for her sake. 

*' O let me trouble her no more with sighs I 

Heart-healing cornes by distanee and with time: 

Then let me wander, and enrieh mine eyes 
With the green forests of a softer elime, 

Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave 

And long monotonous rockings of the wave, 

" Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, 
Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, 

Untamed of man, the shy white llama feeds — 
There would I journey and forget my doom ; 

O far, O far as sunrise 1 would see 

The level prairie stretch away from me 1 

•' Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, 

"Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, 

Droop from the rook and waver in the breeze, 
Lashing the tide to foam ; while calm below 

The mnddy mandrakes throng these waters warm. 

And purpk% gold, and green, the living blossoma 
swarm." , 

So of my father I did win consent, 

Witli importunities repeated long, 
To make that duty which had been my bent, 

To dig Avith strangers alien tombs among. 
And bound to them thougii desert leagues to pace. 
Or track up rivers to their starting-place. 

For this I had done battle and had won, 

But not alone to tread Arabian sands, 
Measure the shadows oi" a soutluTn sun, 

Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands j 



ThE FOUR BRIDGES. 160 

But for the dream tlierevvith I tliouglit to cope — 
The grief of love unmatecl with love's hope. 

And now I would set reason in array, 

Methought, and light for freedom manfully. 

Till by long absence there would come a day 
Wh2n this my love wouhl not be pain to me ; 

But if I knew my rosebud (air and blest 

I should not pine to wear it on my breast. 

The days fled on ; another week shoi Id fling 
A foreign shadow on my lengthet.ing way ; 

Another week, yet nearness did not bring 
A braver heart that hard farewell to say. 

I let the last day wane, -the dusk begin, 

Ere I had souglit tliat window lighted from within. 

Sitdcing and sinking, O my heart ! my heart ! 

Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? 
I reached the little gate, and soft within 

The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend 
Her loveliness to me, and let me share 
The listless sweetness of those features fair. 

Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, 
Heavy for this our parting, I did stand ; 

Beside her mother in the lighted room, 
She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand ; 

And as she read, her sweet voice, floating through 

The open casement, seemed to mourn me an adieu. 

Youth! youth! howbuoyantare thyhopes I they turn, 
Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. 

My hopes were buried in a funeral urn. 

And thej'' sprang up like plants and spread them 
wide ; 

Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, 

They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. 

Ah, sweetest voice I how pensive were its tonce^ 
And how regretful its unconscious pause 1 



170 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

" Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, 

And is our partini? of to-night, the cause ? 
All, would it might be so ! " I thought, and stood 
Listening entranced among, the underwood. 

I thought it would be something w^orth the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, 

And take from them an answering look again. 

"When eastern palms," I thought, " about me rise, 

If I might carve our names upon the rind. 

Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee 
behind." 

I can be patient, faithful, and most fond 
To unacknowledged love ; I can be true 

To this sweet thralldom, this unequal bond, 
This yoke of mine that reaches not to you : 

how much more could costly })arting buy — 

[f v»ot a. pledge, one kiss, oi', failing that, a sigli ! 

[ listened, and she ceased to read ; she turned 
Her face toward the laurels Avhere I stood : 

Mer mother spoke — O wonder ! hardly learned ; 
She said, " There is a rustling in the wood ; 

Ah, child ! if one draw near to bid farewell, 

Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. 

*• My daughter, there is nothing held so dear 

As love, if only it be hard to win. 
The roses that in yonder hedge appear 

Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within ; 
But since the hand may pluck them every day, 
Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. 

" My daughter, my beloved, be not yon 

Like those same roses," O bewildering Avord ! 

My neart stood still, a mist obscured my view : 
It cleared ; still silence. No denial stirred 

The ips beloved ; but straight, as one opprest, 

SiiH, kn( eling, dropped her face upon her mother'* 
breast. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. Itl 

This^aid, " My daugiiter, sorrow comes to all ; 

Our life is elieckcd with sba<lows manifold : 
But woman has this more — she may not call 

Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, 
And only born of absence and by thought, 
With thought and absence may return to naught/ 

And my beloved lifted up her face, 

And moved her lips as if about to speak ; 

She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, 
And the rich damask mantled in her cheek t 

1 stood awaiting till she should deny 

Her love, or with sweet laugliter put it by. 

But, closer nestling to hor mother's heart, 

She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, 

For I was breathless ; and, with lips apart, 
Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, 

And strove to move, but could not for the weight 

Of unbelieving joy so sudden and so great, 

Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh 
Breaking away, I left her on lier knees, 

And blest the laurel bovver, the darkened sky. 
The sultry night of August. Through the trees. 

Giddy with gladness, to the porch I Avent, 

And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment. 

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit 

With both hands cherishing the graceful head, 

Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it 
From the fair brow ; she, rising, only said, 

In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, 

The careless greeting that I always heard ; 

And she resumed her merry, mocking smile. 

Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung, 

O woman ! thou wert fasliioned to beguile ; 
So have all sages said, all poets sung. 

She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, 

Wi'/h smiles of gratulation on her lips I 



m THE FOVk BRIDGET, 

And then she looked and faltered : I had grown 

80 suddeidy in life and soid a man : 
She moved her lips, but could not lind a tone 

To set her mocking music to ; began 
One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, 
And straiglit withdrew them, bashful through SUA 
prise. 

The color over cheek and bosom flushed ; 

I might have heard the beating of her heart, 
But that mine own beat louder ; when she blushed. 

The hand within mine o\vn I felt to start. 
But would not change my }>itiless decree 
To strive with her for might and mastery. 

She looked again, as one that, half afraid, 
Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing j 

Or one beseeching, '' Do not me upbraid ! " 
And then she trembled like the iluttering 

Of timid little birds, r.iul silent stood, 

No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. 

She turned, and to an open casement moved 
With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze, 

And ! on downcast lashes iinreproved 

Could look as long as pleased me ; while, therayi 

Of moonlight niund her, she her fair head bent^ 

In modest silence to my words attent. 

How fast the giddy whirling moments flew 1 

The moon had set ; 1 heard the midnight chime ; 

Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. 
And T could wait unmoved the j)arting time. 

It came ; for by a sudden impulse drawn, 

She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn- 

A little waxen taper in her hand, 

Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, 

She looked like one of the celestial band, 
Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 178 

Most human hltislies ; wliile, the soft light thrown 
On vesture pure ami white, she seemed yet grown. 

Her mother, looking out tOAvardher, sighed, 
Then gave !ier liand in token of farewell. 

And with her warning eyes, tliat seemed to chidt 
Scarce suffered tliat I souglit her child to tell 

The story of my life, whose every line 

No other hurden bore than — Eo-lantine. 



o 



Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind. 
The waxen taper burned full steadily ; 

It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind 
To hear that lovers say, and her decree 

Had passed for silence, while^ she, dropped to ground 

With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. 

O happiness ! thou dost not leave a trace 
So WfU defined as sorrow. Amber light, 

Shed like a glory, on her angel face, 
1 can remember fully, and the sight 

Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, 

And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. 

[ can remember how the taper played 
- Over her small hands and her vesture white ; 
How it struck up into the trees, and liid 

Upon their under leaves unwonted light ; 
And when she held it low, how far it spread . 
O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. 

lean remen:ber that we spoke full low, 
That neither doubted of the other's truth ; 

And that with footsteps slower and more slow, 
Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth; 

Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame. 

We wandered till the gate of parting came. 

But I forget the parting words she said, 

So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul \ 



174 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

For ono sliort moiiuMi; lunnaii heart and head 

JNIay hear sueli bliss — its present is the whole : 
I had (hat presesit, till in whispers fell 
With parting gesture her subdued farewell. 

" Farewell ! " she said, in act to turn away. 
But stood a moment still to dry her tears, 
And sjlTiTod my enfolding arm to stay 

U'lie time of her (h^parture. O ye years 
That intervene betwixt that day and this ! 
You all received your hue from that keen pain an4 
bliss. 

O mingled pain and bliss ! O pain to break 
At onee from ha{)piness so lately found, 

And four long years to fei>l for her sweet sake 
The incompleteness of all sight and sound ! 

liut bliss to cross once more the foaming brine — 

bliss to come again and make her mine. 

1 cannot — O, I cannot more recall ! 

Hut I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest 
AVith musing over journeyiugs wide, and all 

C)l)si'rvanee of this active-humored west, 
And swarming cities steejied in eastern day, 
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array, 

I turn from these, and straight there Avill succeed 
(Shifting and changing at the restless will). 

Imbedded in sonu> deep (Circassian mead, 

NVliite wagon-tilts, and tlocks that eat their fill 

Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, 

Aiul scarcely show their heads above the grass. 

— The red Sahara in an angry glow. 
With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed 

iiong strings of caUiels, gloomy-eyed and slow. 
And wonjen on their necks, from gazers veiled^ 

And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand 

To groves of date-trees on the watered land. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 178 

Afi^-iin — tlio browti sails of an- Arab boat, 

FlappiiiL;; !)y iiinlit upon a ,ii,"lassy sea, 
Wlu'lvon tlio moon ami plaiictH seoin to float, 

More bright of liiio tliaii liu'y were wont to be, 
Wiiilo shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, 
Ami, tiiick as swarmiiig hxiiists, drop to ground. 

Or far into the heat among the sands 

'i'lie gembock nations, snuding up the wind, 

Drawn by the scent of water — and the bands 
Of tawny bearded lions {)acing, blind 

With the sun-dazzle in tlu-ir tni(lst, opprcst 

With prey, and s]>iritless for lack of rest ! 

What more? Ohl Lel)aii<)n, th(> frosty-browed, 

iSettin<i: his feet among oil-olivi! trees, 
Heaving liis bare brown shoulder through a cloud \ 

Anil aft(!r, grassy ("^armel, purple s<>as, 
Flattering iiis drcnims and ecihoing in his rociks. 
Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. 



Enough : how vain this thinking to beguile, 
With recollected scenes, an aching breast ! 

Did not I, journeying, muse on lier the while? 
Ay, yt!s I for every lamlsc^apc! comes imj)re8sed — 

Ay, written on, as by an iron ))en — 

With the same thought I nui-sed about her then. 

Therefore let memory turn again to home ; 

Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near ; 
Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam. 

And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear ; 
Then think a skylark's voic-e far sweeter sound 
Than ever thrilled but over English ground ; 

And walk, glad, ttvcn to tears, among t"ne wheat, 
Not doubting this to be the first of lands ; 

And, w lile in foreign Mords this murmuring, meet 
Some little village scln)ol-girls (with their liandg 

Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, 

loount ,heir Englisli talk delightsome melody ; 



M THE FOUR BRIDGET. 

And seat me on a bank, ar.d draw them near, 
Tliat I may feast myself with hearing it, 
Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, 
1 Push back their iiaxen curls, and round me sit — 
/Tell me tlieir names, their daily tasks, and show 
Where wild wood strawberries in the copses grow. 

So passed the day in this delightsome land : 

My heart was thankful for the English tongue — 

For English sky with featheiy cloudlets spanned — 
For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung 

I journeyed, and at glowing eventide 

Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. 

That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad 
To miss the flapping of the shrouds ; but lo I 

A quiet dream of beings twain I liad, 
Behind the curtain talking soft and low : 

Methought I did not heed their utterance fine^ 

Till one of them said softly, "Eglantine." 

I started up awake, 'twas silence all : 

My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear j 
And "All ! " methought, "how sweetly did it fall, 

Though but in dream, upon the listening ear ! 
How sweet from other lips the name well known — 
That name, so many a year heard only from mina 
own ! " 

I thought awhile, then slumber came to me. 
And tangled all m}^ fancy in lier maze, 

And I Avas drifting on a I'aft at sea. 

The near all ocean, and the far ail haze ; 

Through tne white polished m ater sharks did glide, 

And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. 

" Have mercy, God ! " but lo ! my raft uprose \ 
Drift, drift, I heard the water splash from it ; 

My raft had wings, and as the petvel goes, 

It skimmed the sea, then brooding tseemed to sit 



THE POirk BRIDGES. 177 

The milk-white uiirror, till, with sudden spring, 
[t tiew straigbf upward like a living thing. 

But strange 1 1 went not also in that flight, 
For I was entering at a cavern's mouth ; 

Trees grew w itliin, anrl screaming birds of night 
Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. 

On, on I went ; while gleaming in the dark 

Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stai'k. 

The trees had flo\ver buds, nourished in deep night, 

And suddenly, as I went farther in, 
They opened, and they shot out lambent light ; 

Then all at once arose a railing din 
That frighted me. " It is the ghosts," I said, 
" And they are railing for their darkness fled!. 

"I hope they will not look me in the face ; 

It frigliteth me to hear their laughter loud ; 
t ^aw them troop before with jaunty pace, 

And one would shake off dust that soiled her 
shroud. 
But now, O joy unlioped I to calm my dread, 
Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. 

I climbed the lofty trees — the blanchcid trees — 
Tlie cleft was wide enough to let me through ; 

I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, 

And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. 

O happy chance ! O fortune to admire : 
' I stood beside my own loved village spire. 

\nd as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, 

Lo, far-off music — music in the night ! 
So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk ; 

It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, 
And in my dream, methought as it drew near 
The very clouds in heaven stoo])ed low to hear. 

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deejdy stirrea, 
foj high as heaven runs up the piercing strain j 



178 THE FOUR BRIDGES. , 

The restless music liutteriug like a biM 

Bemoaned herself, ami clropi)ed to earth again. 
Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid 
That 1 should die of grief when it did fade. 

And it DID fade ; but while with eager ear 
1 drank its last long echo dying'away, 

I was aware of footsteps that drew near, 

And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray *, 

O, soft above the hallowed place tliey trod — 

Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod ! 

I turned — 'twas even so — yes, Eglantine I 
For at the first I liad divined the same ; 

I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, 

And said, " She is asleep : " still on she came ; 

Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, 

And thought, " I know that this is but a dream. ** 

My dai'ling ! O my darling ! not the less 

My dream went on because I knew it such : 

She came towards me in her loveliness — 

A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch | 

The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, 

The long Avhiterobe descended to her feet. 

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed ; 

Her dreamy smile was very fair to see. 
And lier two hands were folded to her breast, 

With somewhat held between them heedfully. 
O fast asleep ! and yet methought she knew 
And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. 

She sighed : my tears ran down for tenderness — 
" And have 1 drawn thee to me in my sleep ? 

Is it for me thou wandoi-est shelterless. 
Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? 

O if this be ! " I said — " yet speak to me % 

T blame my very dream for cruelty." 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. IW 

Then from her stainless bosom slie cTifl take 
Two beauteous lily flowers tluU. lay therein^ 

Aiul with slow-moving- lips a gesture inake. 
As one that some forgotten words doih win ; 

"Th'jy floated on tlie pool," methought she said. 

And water trickled from each lily's head. 

It dropped upon her feet — I saw it gleam 

Along the ripples of her yellow hair, 
And stood apart, for only in a dr(>atn 

She would have come, methought, to meet me 
there. 
She spoke again — " Ah fair ! ah fresh ihey ishine ' 
And there are many left, ^nd these are mine." 

I ans\vered her with flattering accents meet — 
" Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown.** 

** And sayest thou so ? " sh^i sighed in murmurs 
sweet : 
" 1 have nautjht else to scive f,l»ee now. mine own ! 

For it is night. Then take them love ! " said she : 

" They have been costly flowers t o thee — and me. " 

"While thus she said I took them from her hand, 
And, overcome with love and n^'amess, woke ; 

And overcome with ruth that she should stand 
Barefooted on tlie grass ; that, when she spckt 

Her mystic words should take so swe<>t Si tone. 

And of all names her lips should choos^j "My otvTi.* 

1 rose, I journeyed, neared my home, ar.d soon 
Beheld the spire peer out above the hill : 

It was a su'iny harvest afternoon. 

When by the churchyard wicket, standifu; sviil^ 

T cast my eager eyes abroad to know 

If change had touched the scenes of longago- 

Ilooked across the hollow ; sunbeams shone 
Upon the'old house with (he gable-ends : 

" Save that the laurel-trees are taller grown, 

No change," methought, " to its gray wall extends 



,RC Tin- porn fiKrDCP.S. 

V/liat cloar oriurht. beams on yonder lattlco ghinel 
I iu'i\' (lid I 8t)mc'tiiiu' talk willi Ki^lantine." 

TIkto standiiiij with jny very tcoal in sight, 
OviT my iiasti! <ii(l NudcK n (juii't steal ; 

! ihoiiu^lil t(; <lally with my own deliLi;lit, 
Nor rush on headlonu;- to my j^arnered we.il, 

JV.it. tat^te tile sweetness of a short dehiy, 

iVnd f«^r a little moment hold th»' bliss at bay, 

'I'he iluireh was optii ; i( iirrebance niiiiht be 
That, there to oiler tiianks I mi<<^bt essay, 

Or rather, as 1 think, that I mit;lit see 

'I'he plaee where Kglanline was wont to pray, 

lint so it was ; I erossed (hat j)ortal wide. 

And fell i ly riot joy to ealin subside. 

The low dependinj:; curtains, gently sw'ayed. 
Cast over areh and roof a erinison glow ; 

l>Mt, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade 
It seemed, savi> oidy for the rij)j)ling How 

or their long foldings, wlu'u the sunset air 

iSighed through the casements of the house of prayer 

1 found her place, (he ancient oalicn stall, 
Where in her ehihlhood I liad seen her sit, 

J\rost saint liki' and most traiuiuil there of all, 
Fohling her hands, as if a tlreaniing lit — 

A heavenly vision had before her strayed 

Of the Kternal Child in lowly manger laid. 

I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat. 
And tooK it in my hand, anil felt more near 

In faiicv (o her, tlnding it uiost sweet 

To tliink how very oft, lov.' kneeling here, 

In her devout thoughts she had letnie share. 

And set my graceless name in her pure prayet 

Mv eyes were dazzled with delightful tears — 
\\\ sooth they were the last I ever slied ; 



4 MOTHER SI low INC THE rORTRAIT, ETC \%\ 

For willi (lu'tii fell llu; (tlu'iinlu'd (lioains of y(!;iri., 

I lookt'd, find oil t.li(i wall above my lutad, 
Over her seat, there was a tablet ])la(H!d, 
With one word only on tru; marble tra(u'd, — 

Ah, well ! I would not overstate tliat woe, 
Fori Iiav(i had somhi l>l('ssiii<;s, little care ; 

J^ut since t-Ii(> faHintj; of (liat heavy Idov/, 

(iod'H earl h has never S('('iii('<l t(» \\\v no fair j 

Nor any of His (Teatures so divine, 

Nor sleep so swei^t : — the word was — Kcu.antinl. 



A MOTIIKU SHOWING THE POKTliAlT OF 
J IKK CHILD. 

(k. m. 1..) 

LivFNO ojiiM) or pictured cherub 

Ne'er o'ermati^hed its baby grace ; 
And the mother, moving nearer, 

Jjookcd it (ialmly in tlu; face ; 
Then with slight and (juiet g<(sture, 

And with lif)s that scarcely smiled, 
Said, "A Portrait of my daughter 

When she was a child." 

Easy thought was hers to fathom, 
Nothing hard her glance t<» read. 

For it seiMiied to say, " No j)raise8 
For this little child I need : 

Tf you s(!e, I see far Ix^tter, 
And I will not feign to care 

For a stranger's prompt assurance 
That the face is fair." 

Softly clasjxid a'xl half extendtid, 
She h(!r dimpled hands doth lay : 

80 they doubtJ(!ss placed them, saying' 
" Little one. you must not play. 



183 A MO THE A SIIOWIXG THE 



Antl while yet bis work was growing, 
This tlie painter's luincl hatli sliown, 

That the little lieai't Avas making 
Pictures of its own. 



Is it warm in that green valley, 

Vale of cliildhood, Avhere you dwell ? 
Is it calm in that green valley, 

Round whose bourns sneh great hills swell t 
Arc there giants in tlie valle) — 

Giants leaving footprints yet ? 
Are there angels in the valley ? 

Tell mc — 1 forget. 

Answer, answer, for the lilies, 

Little one, o'ertop you much, 
And the mealy g:ld within them 

You can scarcely reach to touch ; 
O how far their aspect differs, 

Looking up and looking down t 
You look u]) in that green valley — 

Valley of renown. 

Are there voices in the valley, 

Lying near the heavenly gate? 
When it opens, do the harp-strings, 

Touched within, reverberate ? 
WlTen, like shooting-stars, the angels 

To your couch at nightfall go, 
Are their swift wings heard to rustle P 

Tell me ! for you know. 

Yes, you know ; and you are silent. 

Not a word shall asking win ; 
Little mouth more sweet than rosebud. 

Fast it locks the secret in. 
Not a glimpse upon your present 

You unfold to glad my view ; 
Ah, what seciets of your future 

1 could tell to you I 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 18S 

Bnnny present ! thus T read it, 

By reinoinbiMiico of ray past : — 
Its to-day and its to-morrow 

Are as lifetimes vague and vast ; 
And each face in that green valley 

Takes for you an aspect mild, 
And each voice grows soft in saying, 

" Kiss me, little child ! " 

As a boon the kiss is granted : 

Baby mouth, your touch is sweet. 
Takes the love without the trouble 

Fiom those lips that with it meet ; 
Gives the love, O pure ! O tender I 

Of the valley where it grows. 
But the baby heart receiveth 

More than it bestgw^s. 

Comes the future to the present — 

" Ah ! " she saith, " too blithe of mood ; 
Why that smile which seems to whisper — 

' I am happy, God is good ? ' 
God is good : that truth eternal 

Sown for you in happier years, 
I must tend it in my shadow. 

Water it with tears. 

" Ah, sweet present ! I must lead thee 

By a daylight more subdued ; 
There irust teach thee low to whisper — 

' I am \aournful, God is good ! ' " 
Peace, thou future ! clouds are coming, 

Stooping from the mountain crest, 
But that sunshine floods the valley : 

Let her — let her rest. 

Comes the future to the present — 

"Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest^ 

How long, child, before thy footsteps 
Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? 



184 A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT. ETC 

Ah, the valley ! — angels guard it, 
But the heights are brave to see ; 

Looking down were long contentment } 
Come up, child, to me." 

So she speaks, but do not heed her, 

Little maid with wondrous eyes, 
Not afraid, but clear and tender, 

Blue, and filled -with projjhecies ; 
Thou for whom life's veil unlifted 

Hangs, M'hom warmest valleys fold, 
Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — 

Climb, but heights are cold. 

There are buds that fold Mithin them. 

Closed and covered from our sight. 
Many a richly-tinted petal, 

Never looked on by the light ; 
Fain to see their shrouded faces, 

Sun and dew are long at strife. 
Till at length the sweet buds open — 

Such a bud is life. 

When the rose of thine own being 

Shall reveal its central fold, 
Thou shalt look Avithin and marvel, 

Fearing what thine eyes behold ; 
"What it shows and what it teaehet 

Are not things wheiewith to pan j 
Thorny rose ! that always costeth 

Beatings at the heart. 

Look in fear, fci" there is dimness : 

Ills unsha])en float anigh. 
Look in awe : for this same nature 

Once the Godhead deigned to dift 
Look in love, for He doth love it, 

And its tale is best of lore : 
Still humanity grows dearer. 

Being learned the more. 



07RIFE AXb PEACE. IW 

Learn, but not, the less bi'lhiiik thee 

How tliat all can mingle tears ; 
But his joy can none diseover, 

Save to them that are liis peers; 
And that they whose lips do utter 

Language such as bards have eung^ 
Lo ! their speech shall be to many 

As an unknown tongue. 

Learn, that if to tliee the meaning 

Of all other eyes be shown, *> 

Fewer eyes can ever front thee, 

That are skilled to read thine own ; 
And that if thy love's deep current 

Many another's far outflows, 
Then thy heart must take forever 

LjiSS THAN IT BESTOWS. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 

Written for Tbe Pobtpolio Sooibty, October, 1801. 

The yellow poplar leaves came down 

And like a carpet lay, 
No waflings were in the sunny air 

To tlutter them away ; 
And he stepped on blithe and debonair 

That warm October day. 

"The boy," said he, " liath got his own. 

But sore has been the fight, 
For ere his life began the strife 

That ceased but yesternight ; 
For the will," be said, "the kinsfolk re»cL 

And read it not ai'ijit. 

** His cause was argued in the court 
Before his christening day ; 



188 STRIFE AND PEACE. 

And counsel was heard, and judge demurred. 

And bitter waxed th3 fray ; 
Brother with brother spake no word 

When they met in the way. 

** Against each one did each contend, 

And all against the heir. 
I would not bend, for I knew the end — 

I have it for my share. 
And naught repent, though my first friend 
-^ From henceforth I must sj^are. 

** Manor and moor and f ann and wold 
Their greed begrudged him sore, 

And parclmients old with passionate hold 
They guarded lieretofore ; 

And they carped at signature and seal. 
But they may carp no more. 

" An old affront will stir the heart 
Through years of rankling pain ; 

And I feel the fret that urged me yet 
That warfare to maintain ; 

For an enemy's loss may well be set 
Above an infant's gain. 

" An enemy's loss I go to prove ; 

Laugh out, thou little heir ! 
Laugh in his face who vowed to chase 

Thee from thy birthright fair ; 
For I come to set thee in thy place : 

Laugh out, and do not spare." 

A man of strife, in wrathful mood 

He neared the nurse's door ; 
With poplar leaves'the roof and eavef 

Were thickly scattered o'er, 
A.nd yellow as they a sunbeam lay 

Along the cottage floor. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 181 

''Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb,* , 

He hears the fond nurse say ; 
'•'And if angt'Is stand at thy right hand, 

As now belike they may, 
And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, 

I fear them not this day. 

" Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart 

It was all one to me. 
For thy pretly tongue far sweeter rung 

Than coined gold and fee ; 
And ever the while thy waking smile 

It was right fair to see. 

*' Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know 
Who grudged and who ti-ansgressed ; 

Thee to retain I was full fain. 
But God, He knoweth best ! 

And His peace upon thy brow lies plain 
As the sunshine on thy breast 1 " 

The man of strife, he enters in, 

Looks, and his pride doth cease ; 
Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow 

Trouble, and no release ; 
But the babe whose life awoke the strife 

Hath entered into peace. 



A STORY OF DOOM, Al^D OTHEF 

POEMS. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

I SAW in a vision once, our motlier-splierc 

Tlie world, her tixod foredoomed oval tracing, 

Rolling and rolling on and resting never, 

While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 

The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. 

Great Heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to 
share. 

Would I may never bear 

Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed Avith drawings strong. 

And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), 

Nor ft el that phantoin-Avings behind me sweep. 
As she feels night pursuing through the long 

Illimitable reaches of " the vasty deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There M-as a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 
Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 

A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, 

On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 

Right stately was his chamber, soft and whit# 
The pillow, and his quilt was eiderdown. 



THE D REAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 18« 

What mattered it to liiin through all that night 

The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, 
And winds were up the edtlying sleet to chase, 
That drave and drave and found no settling place? 

What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, 
Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane? 

He bare a charmed life against their shock, 
Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain j 

Fixed in his right, and born to good estate. 

From common ills set by and separate. 

From work and want and fear of want aDart, 

This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore) — 

This man had comforted his cheerful heart 
With all that it desired from every shore. 

He had a right, — the right of gold is strong,-— 

He stood u])on his right his whole life long. 

Custom makes all things easy, and content 
Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold. 

As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, 
Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, 

Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 

A range of sordid hovels stretched away. 

What cause had he to think on thera, forsooth ? 
What cause tliat niglit beyond another night ? 
^ He was familiar even from his youth 

With their long ruin and tlieir evil plight. 
The wintry wind would search them like a scout. 
The water froze within as freely as without. 

He think upon them ? No ! They were forlorn. 
So were the cowering inmates whom they held j 

A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born. 
Ever complaining : infancy or eld 

Alijce. Bat there was rent, or long agd 

Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow 



t90 THE DREAMS THA T CAME TRUE. 

For tills they stood ; and what his thoughts might be 
This wiiittT night, I know not ; but I know 

That, while the creeping tiaiue fed silently 
And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, 

The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep 

)lo fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. 

Me dreamed that over him a shadov came ; 

And when he looked to find the cause, behold 
Soine person knelt between him and the fiame ; — 

A cowering figure of one frail and old, — 
A woman ; and she prayed as he descried, 
And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 

" Good Heaven I " the Justice cried, and being dis- 
traught 

He called not to her, but he looked again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 

Upon her head ; and she did quake amain. 
And spread her Avasted hands and ])oor attire 
To gather in the briglitness of liis lire. 

" I know you, woman I " then the Justice cried j 
" I know tliat wonuui well," he cried aloud ; 

"The shepherd Aveland's Avidow : God me guide I 
A pauper kneeling on my hearth : " and bowed 

The hag, like one at home, its warmtli to share ! 

"How dares she to intrude ? ^Vhat does she here F 

* Ho, woman, ho ! " — but yet she did not stir. 
Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke ; 

" I'll ring my people up to deal with her ; 

I'll rouse the house," he cried ; but while lie spc*^ 

He turned, and saw, but distant from his b^'d, 

Another form, — a Darkness with a head. 

Then, in a rage, he siiouted, " ^Yho are you? " 
For little in the gloom lie might discern. 

^ Sptak out ; speak now ; or I will make you xx\» 
The hour ! " but there was silence, and a stern 



« 



THE DkF.iMS 77/AT CAML TRUE. 191 

Dark face from out tlio tliisk appeared to lean. 
And then again drew back, and was not seen. 

" God ! " cried tlie dreaming man, right impiously, 
" What liave I done, that these my sleep affray?" 

*' <^Jo(l ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal to Thee, 
Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey. " 

" Ood ! " sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old^ 

" I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold. " 



Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 

" Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here !** 

And lo ! it pointed in the failing light 

Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 

" Tliou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 

But first to tell Jier tale that kneeleth thei'e. " 

" Jfo' tale 1 " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale t " 
And he took heart at this so low behest, 

And let the stoutness of his will prevail, 

Demanding, " Is't for Aer you break my rest? 

She went to jail of late for stealing wood, 

She will again for this night's hardihood. 

" 1 sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
I will commit her for this trespass here.** 

"Thou wilt not I " quoth the ShadoAV, « thou wilt 
give 
Her story words ; '* and then it stalked anear 

And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see^ 

A countenance of angered majesty. 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray 
With that material Darkness chiding him, 

** If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, 
And bid her move, for all the room is dim 

By reason of the place she holds to-night : 

She kneels between rae and the warmth and light. * 

" With adjurations deep and drawings strong. 
And with the power," it said, " unto me given, 



iSi THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUJL 

I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, 

Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. 
Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong 

night, 
And yet shall kneel between thee and the light.' 



»> 



This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands. 

And held them as the dead in effigy 
Hold theirs, when carved uj)on a tomb. The bands 

Of fate had bound him fast : uo remedy 
Was left : his voice unto himself was strange, 
And that unearthly vision did not change. 

He said, " That woman dwells anear my door, 
Her life and min/? began the selfsame day, 

Anil I am hale and hearty : from my store 
1 never spared her aught : she takes her way 

Of me unheeded ; pining, pinching care 

Is all the portion that she has to share. 

'* She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, 
Tlirough labor and through sorrow early old ; 

And I have known of this hei* evil plight. 

Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold ; 

A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 

She labored on my land the long year round. 

** What woulds/ thou have me say, thou Fiend at 
horred ? 

Show me no more thine awful visage grim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 

That I have paid her wages. Cry to him 1 
He has not ntvch against me. None can say 
\ have not paid her wages day by day. 

"The spell ! It draws me. I must s|)eak again ; 

And speak against myself ; and speak aloud. 
The woman once approached me to complain,— • 

* My wages are so low ' I mav be proud ; 
It is a fault." '' Ay," quoth the Phantom tell, 
" Sinner 1 it is a fault : thou sayest wf^ll" 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 191 

"She ma«le licr moan, ' Mv wages are so low.' " 
" Tel! oi! ! " " She said,"'' bo answered, " ' My best 
days 

Are ended, and t]ie snnimer is but slow 

To eonie ; and my good strength for work deoayi 

By reason that 1 live so hard, and lie 

On winter nights so bare lor poverty.' 



> n 



" And you replied," — began the lowering shade, 
"And I iK^plied," the Justice followed on, 

"That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 
Anil if 1 raised the wages of the one 

Straight should the cthei-s murmur ; furthermor*, 

The winter was as winters gone before. 

" N"o colder and not longer." " Afterward ?" 

The Phantom questioned. " Afterward,** b« 
groaned, 

"She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 
Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 

He gave much coal and clothing. 'Doth he so? 

Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. * Go . 

*'*You arefull welcome.' "Jlien she mumbled out 
Sh"' hoped I was noi angry ; hoped, forsooth, 

I would forgive her : and I turned about, 
And said I should be angry in good truth 

If this should be again or ever more 

tihe dared to stop me thus at the church door." 

''Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constramed 
said on, 

" Then she, reproved, courtsyed herself away." 
"Ilast met her since ?" it made demand anon ; 

And after pause the Justice answered, " Ay \ 
Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir : 
She was accused, and I did sentence her." 

Bui vtt, and yet, the dreaded questions came ; 
" And didal thou weigh the matter, — taking thought 



194 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE 

Upon hersol)cr life and honest fame?" 

" r gave it," ho i-opliod, witli gaze distraught } 
"I gave "t, Kieiul, the usual care ; 1 took 
Tlie usual pains ; 1 couhl not nearer look, 

*' Because — heeause their piKerieg had got head. 

What wouldst thou more ? '^'lie neighbors i>leaded 
hard, 
T's true, and nuuiy tears the erer<ture shed : 

[>ut I had vowed their ]nayers to disregard, 
Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, 
And put down thieving with a steady hand. 

"She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true 
She said so, but the poor are liars aii. 

thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou ? ]\[ust X v^ew 
Thy darkness yet, and must tl:y shadow fall 

Upon me miserable ? I have done 

No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 

" Ye(," quoth the Shade, " if ever to thine ears 
The knowledge of her blamelessness was broughtj 

Or others have confessed with dying tears 

The crime she suffered for, and thou hast AV rougbi 

All reparation in thy power, and told 

Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 

"If thou hast honored her, and hast jiroelaimed 
Her inr.ocence and thy deplored wrong, 

Still thou art naught ; for thou shalt yet be blamed 
In that she, feeble, came before thee, strong, 

And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow. 

Because thou liadst been angered, worked her woe. 

^*' But didst thou right ber ? Speak I " The Justia 

i sighed, 

-* Ami beaded drops stood out upon his brow } 

**How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, 
"To a bafie beggar ? N:;y, I will avow 

Tliat 1 did ill. i will reveal the whole ; 

1 kept that knowledge in my secret soul.* 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 195 

** Hear lilin ! " the Phantom muttered ; " hear this 
man, 

O. changeless God upon the judgment throne." 
With that, cohl tremors tlirough liis pulses ran, 

And lamentably he did make his moan ; 
While, with its arms upraised ahove his head, 
The dim dread visitor ap[)roached his bed. 

*• Into these doors," it said, "which thou hast closed 
Daily this woman shall from henceforth come ; 

\Ier kneeling form shall yet be interposed, 
Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum,— 

Shall yet be interposed l>y day, l)y night. 

Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. 

" Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal 
Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. 

But what ! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal 
From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. 

Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, 

There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." 

" Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried ; 

" By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?* 
" 'Tis well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, 

"For mine thou art, and naught shall sever us : 
Froui thine own lips and life I draw ray force : 
The name thy nation give me is Remorse." 

This when he hoard, the dreaming man cried out, 
And woke affrighted ; and a crimson glow 

The dying ember shed. Within, without. 
In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow ; 

The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 

" O, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; 

" I will take warning and for mercy trust ; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with rae ,' 

i ^]l repair that wrong, I will be just. 



106 TKh DREAMS THAT CAME THUS. 

I will be kind, I wifl my ways amend." 
I^ow thefirat dream is told unto its end. 

Anigb tlie frozen mere a cottage stood, 

A piercing wind swept round and shook the dooi 

The shrunken door, and easy way made good, 
And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. 

It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moou 

Was shining in, and night was at the noon. 

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold ; 

She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail. 
And she was hunger-bitten, weak, and old ; 

Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook 

Upon her trembling knees she held a book — 

A comfortable book for them that mourn. 
And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 

It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourn, 
Their Elder Brother, from Ilis home secure, 

That for theiy desolate He died to win. 

Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter in." 

What thought she on, this woman ? on her days 
Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn? 

I think not so ; the heart but seldom weighs 
With conscious care a burden alwavs borne : 

And she was used to these things, had grown old 

In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to live 
Of all the good this world can yield bereft? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 

She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 

Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 

A strange, a marvelous sleep, which brought a dream, 
And it was this : that all at once she heard 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. ,yf 

The pleasant babbling of a little stream 

That ran be.side her door, and then a bird 
Broke out in songs, yhe looked, and lo ! the rime 
And snow had melted ; it was summer time I 

And all the cold was over, and the mere 

Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green ; 

The mellow sunliglit poured right warm and clear 
Into her casement, and thereby were seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 

Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 

She said, « I will betake me to my door. 

And will look out and see this wondrous sight. 

How summer is come back, and frost is o'er. 
And all the air warm waxen in a night." ' 

With tliat she opened, but for fear she cried, 

For lo I two angels,— one on either side. 

And while she looked, with marveling measureleaa, 
The Angels stood conversing face to face, 

But neither spoke to her. " the wilderness," 
One Angel said, " the solitary place, 

Shall yet be glad for him." And then full fain 

Ihe other Angel answered, "He shall reign." 

And when the woman heard, in a wonderijig wise, 
She whispered, " They are speaking of my Lord'. •• 

And straightway swept across the op'en skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took the word. 

That flock of Angels, "He shall come again, 

My Lord, my Lord I » they 8ang,"and He shall reign ! * 

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'erhead. 
Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee ; 

And those before her one to other said, 

"Behold he stands aneath yon almond-tree," 

This when the Avoman lu-ard, she fain had gazed. 

But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed 



198 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 

She looked, and there was naught beneath the tree ; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 

The fear of Angels, awful though they be, 
And she passed out between the blessed things, 
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 

O, all the happy world was in its best. 

The trees were covered thick with buds and fiowerg, 
And these were dropping honey ; for the rest. 

Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels go, 
And saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree. 
And none she saw beneath it : yet each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee. 
And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint, 

And then a lighting Angel neared the place. 

And folded his fair wings before his face. 

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 
As feeling for the sacred human feet ; 

She said, *' Mine eyes are held, but if He stands 
Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 

Except He bless me." Then, O sweet ! O fair ! 

Some words v\^ere spoken, but she knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, 
Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 

'* What wilt thou, woman ? " in the dream He spoke j 
" Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love ; 

Long have I counted up thy mournful years. 

Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." 

She said : " My one Redeemer, only blest, 

I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great request. 
My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 

Call me, O call from this world troublesome. 

And let me see Thy face." He answered, *' Come.* 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 199 

Sere is the endlnrf of the second dream. 

It is a frosty moniiiig, keen and cold, 
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream. 

And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold; 
Witii savory morning meats they spread the board, 
But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. 

" Bring me my cloak," quotb he, as one in haste. 

" Before you breakfast, sir ? " his man replies. 
" Ay," quoth he, quickly, and he will not taste 

Of aught before him, but in urgent wise, 
As he would fain some carking care allay. 
Across the frozen field he takes his way. . 

" A dream ! how strange that it should move me so^ 
'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice "Wilvermore : 

" And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, 
For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 

Silver and gear the crone shall have of me. 

And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 

" For visions of the night are fearful things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream 

I will not subject me to visitings 
Of such a sort again. I will esteem 

My peace above my pride. From natures rude, 

A little gold will buy me gratitude. 

" The woman shall have leave to gather wood, 
As much as she may need, the long year round | 

She shall, I say ; moreover, it were good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore. 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore, 

With that he nears the door : a frosty rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 

Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time — 
(For none doth open), — time to list the sweep 

And whistle of the wind along the mere. 

Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sear. 



BOO TItE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

" Tf she be out, T have my pains for naught,** 
Ho sailli, ami knocks again, ami yet once more 

But to liis oar nor stop nor 8tir ib^ brouglit ; 
And, after pause, lie doth unlaich the door 

And enter. No ; she is not out, for see, 

She sits asleep 'midst frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 
Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 

" VViiat, dame," he saith, and cH)iiies toward her 
straight, 
"Asleej) so early 1** But Avhate'(>r befall, 

She slcepelh ; then he neais her, and behold 

lie lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 

Then di)th the Justice to his home return ; 

From that day forth he wears a sadder brow \ 
His hands are opened, and his heart doth leani 

The patience of the poor. He made a vow 
Ami keej>s it, for the old and sick have shared 
His gifts, their sordid liomes he hath repaired. 

And some he hath made happy, but for him 
Is happiness no nu)re. He doth repent. 

And now the light of joy is waxen dim, 
Are all his hopes toward the Highest sent ; 

Ho looks for mercv, and he waits release 

Above, for this world doth not yield him peaoe. 

Night after night, night after desolate night, 
Day after day, day after tedious day, 

Stands by ins fire, and dulls its glcamy light, 
Pacetli behind or meets him in the way ; 

Or shares the ])atl\ by hedge-row, mere, or stream 

The visitor that doomed him in his dream. 



Tliy kingdom come. 
I heard a Seer cry : " The wilderness. 

The solitary ])lace, 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bleee 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 201 

(Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face 
The forcNls ; they shall drop their precious gum, 
And s1k'<1 for Ilini their balm : iind lie sliall yield 
The grandeur of llis speech to charm the field. 

" Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 

(Thy kijigdom come,) 
C'Omforted waters waxeu calm shall glisten 
>\'ith hashful tremlilement beneath llis smile : 

And Echo ever the while 
Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, 
The laughter of His lips — (Tliy kingdom come) : 
And hills that sit ai)art shall be no longer dumb ; 

No, they shall shout and shout, 
Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plaitt 

And valleys round about. 

" And all the well-contented land, made sweet 

With flowers she opened at His feet, 
Shall answer ; shout and make the welkin ring, 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing ; 

Iler cup being full to the brim, 

Iler poverty made rich with llim. 
Her vearning satisfied to its utmost sum — 
Lift up thy voice, O Earth, prepare thy song. 

It shall not yet be long, 
Lift up, O Earth, for He shall come again, 
Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign* 

Thy kingdom come. " 



202 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
introduction. 

Child and Boatman. 

•^ Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs. " 
"You do, sir ?" 

"Yes, I wonder how they come." 
'•* Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next ! " 
*' But somebody must make them ? " 

" Sure enough.** 
" Does your wife know ? " 

" She never said she did> * 
" You told me that she knew so many things." 
'• I said she was a London woman, sir, 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 

" I wish she did." 
" And I wish no such thing ; she knows enough. 
She knows too much already. Look you now, 
This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft," 
" A schooner, Martin ? " 

" No, boy, no ; a brig, 
Only she's schooner-rigged, — a lovely craft." 
" Is she for me ? O, tliank you, Martin dear. 
What shall I call her?" 

" Well, sir, what you please.* 
« Then write on her ' The Eagle.' " 

" Bless the child 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, you. 
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, 
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, 
That was the place for eagles ; bald they were 
With eyes as yellow as gold. " 

« O Martin, dear. 

Tell me about them." 

« Tell I there's naught to tel^ 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
"Sapred?" 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD, ETC. 203 

** Ay, I tell you, snored ; ihcy sk'])t uiirlglit 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time. 
If I'd had aught upon my mind just tlien, 
1 1 wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown 

gold ; 
It was most awful. When the moon was full, 
I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch. 
When she got low. I've seen them plunge like Btonea, 
And come up fighting with a fish as long. 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail — 
When they had struck its life out — they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, 
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed 
Grand as a frigate on the wind." 

" My ship, 
She must be called ' The Eagle' after these. 
And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs 
When you go in at dinner-time." 

«Not I." 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UN- 
SATISFIED HEART. 

When in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Missel-thrush, 
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous 
stirs ; 
When Robin-red breast sings, 
We think on budding springs. 
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembran- 
cers. 

But thou in the traces of light 

Stayest the feeding night. 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance 
wise. 

And casts at our glad feet. 

In a wisp of fancies fleet. 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned propheciea. 



804 SAXD MA a TINS. 

Her central thought full well 

Tiioii hast the wit to tell, 
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it 80 ; 

The moral of nioonlit^ht 

To set in a cadence h right, 
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought noD 
did know. 

I have no nest as thon, 

Bird on the blossoming hough, 
Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, 

Chanting, "Forego thy strife, 

The spirit out-acts the life, 
But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive tic 

WHOLE. 

"Thon drawest a perfect lot 

All thine, hut holden not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 

There might be sorer smart 

Than thine, far-seeing heart, 
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." 



SAND MARTINS. 

r PASSED an hiland-cliff inrcij)itate ; 

From tiny oaves peeped many a sooty poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate, 

And of the news delivered her small soul. 

Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay, 
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 

"Gossip, howAvagsthe world with you to-day?" 
" Gossij), the world wags well, the world wags 
welL" 



SAND MARTINS. 205 

And li:irk'mng, I was sure tljeir little ones 

VYcro in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 

Coiicorriing hot sea-bights and tropic suns, 
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cu]) 

Hailing down light on pagan Pliaraoli's sand, 
And quivering air- waves trembling up and i:->. 

And blank stone faces marvelously bland. 

*' When should the young be iledged and with them 
hie 

\Vherc costly day drops down in crijiison light? 
(Fortunate countries of the lire-tly 

Swarm with the blue diamonds all the sultry night, 

" And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
When should they pass again by that red land, 

Wlu'i'c lovely mirag(! works a broidered hem 
To fringe with pliantom-})ahus a robe of sand V 

" When should they dip their breastw again and play 
In slumberous azure pools, clear as i\\o. air, 

Where rosy-winged ilamingoes fish all day. 
Stalking amid the lotos-blossom fair ? 

*' Then, over podded tamarinds bear their (light, 
AViiilt! cassias blossom in the zone of calnis, 

And so betake i\w\n to a south sea-bight, 
T(; gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms 

" Whose roots are in the spray. O, ha[)ly there 
kSorne dawn, white-wingod they might chance to 
find 

A frigate, standing in to make mon; fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

" A frigate come to water : nuts wovdd fall, 
And nimble feet woidd climb the ilower-tlushed 

strand, 
Wliilo northern talk would ring, and therewitlial 

The martins would desire the cool north land 



eOfi A FOET IN HIS YOUTH, 

" And all would be as it had been before ; 

Again, at evo, tluTo would be news to tell ; 
Who passed should hoar them chant it o'er and o'er, 

'Gossip, how wags the world ?' ' Well, gossip, 
well.' " 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE C;UCK(^ 

BIRD. 

Once upon a time, I lay 
Fast asleep at dawn o£ day ; 
Windows open to the south, 
Fancy pouting her sweet moutb 
To my ear. 

She turned a globe 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As she sat at my bed's head, 
" Poet, poet, what ! asleep ? 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances glden. 
Bathed she my entranced heart. 
And she gave a hand to me. 
Drew me onward ; " Come ! " said she ; 
And she moved with me apai't, 
Down the lovely vale of Leisure. 

Such its name was, I heard say, 
For some fairies trooped that way I 
Common people of the place. 
Taking their accustomed pleasure 
(AH the clocks being stopped), to race 
Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
And they said, " What signified 
Faring home till eventide ; 
There were pies on every shelf, 
And the bread would bake itself,** 



AND THE CUcKOO BIRD. Ml 

But for tliat I cared not, fed, 
As it were, Avitli angels' bread, 
Sweet as lioney ; yet next day 
All foredoomed to melt away ? 
Gone before the sun waxed hot. 
Melted manna that was not. 

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
Or the starling's courtship quaint ; 
Heart made much of, 'twas a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in the ample air : 
Building rooks far distant were ; 
Scarce at all would speak the rills. 
And I saw the idle hills, 
In their amber iiazes deep, 
Fold themselves and go to sleep. 
Though it was not yet high noon. 

Silence ? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought, 
Having taken wings, did fly 
Through the reaches of the sky. 
Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had found embodiment, 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep. 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament. 

"•O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 
*' 'Tis the voice of my regret, — 
Mine ! " and I awoke. Full sweet 
Saffron sunbeams did me greet ; 
And the voice it spake again, 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan's-down whit« 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The sharp joy — the sweet paia — 



200 A rOET IN J J IS YOUTH. 

OF its clear, riglit innocent, 
Unreproved discontent. 
How it eanie — Avliere it went — 
Who can tell ? The open blue 
Quivered with it, and I, too, 
Trembled. I remembered mc 
or the springs that used to be, 
When a dimpled white-haired child 
Shy and tender and half wild, 
In the meadows I liad heard 
Some way off the talking bird, 
And had felt it marvelous sweet, 
For it laughed : it did mc greet, 
Calling mc : yet, hid away 
In the woods, it would not play. 
No. 

And all the world about, 
While a man will work or sing, 
Or a child pluck llowers of spring, 
Thou wilt scatter music out, 
Rouse him with thy wandering note 
Changeful fancies set afloat, 
Almost tell with thy clear throat, 
But not quite, the wonder-rife. 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim. 
That he searcheth all his life, 
Searcheth yet, and ne'er exi)Oundeth ; 
And so, wimiowing of thy wings, 
Touch and tremble his heart's strings^ 
That a certain music soundeth 
In that wondrous instrument, 
With a triMubling upward sent,' 
That is reckoned sweet above 
By the Greatness surnamed Love, 

" O, T hear thee in the blue ; 
Would that 1 might wing it too I 
O to have Avhat hope hat I, seen 1 
O to be what might have been I 



yfyVZ> mE CUCKOO JURJ) 20d 

O to sef, my life, sweet bird, 
To a tune tliat oft I liemw? 
Wlien I used to stand alone 
Listening to the lovely moan 
Of the svvayinjj^ ])ines o'erhead, 
While, a-gatherino- of bee-bread 
For their livini:^, murmured round, 
As the poHen (ln)|»))ed to <>rouiid, 
All the nations fi-oin tlu^ hives ; 
And the little brooding- wives 
On each nest, brown dusky tilings, 
Sat with gohl-dust on their wings. 
Then beyond (more sweet than all) 
Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
And there were, and there were not 
(As might fall, and form anew 
Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) 
Echoes of — I know not what; 
As if some right-joyous elf, 
Wliile about his own aifairs, 
"Whistled softly otherwheres. 
Nay, as if our mother dear, 
Wrapt in sun-warm atm'is|)here. 
Laughed a little to herself, 
Laughed a little as she rolled. 
Thinking on the days of old. 



** Ah I there be some liearts, I wis. 
To wdilch nothing comes amiss. 
Mine was one. Much secret wealth 
I was heir to : and by stealth. 
When the moon was fully grown, 
And she thought herself alone, 
I have heard her, ay, right well, 
Shooc a f-ilver message down 
To the unseen sentinel 
Of a still, snow-thatched town. 

**Once, awhile ago, T peered 

In the nest where Sjjring was reared 



810 A POET In' HIS YOUTH, ETC. 

There she, quivering ber fair wingB, 
Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
And tliey fed her ; nights and days, 
Fed her mouth with much sweet food 
And lier heart with love and praise, 
Till the wild thing rose and flew 
Over woods and water-springs, 
Shaking off the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

" Once (I will to you confide 
More), — O, once in forest wide, 
I, benighted, overheard 
Marvelous mild echoes stirred, 
And a calling half defined, 
And an answering from afar ; 
Somewhat talked with a star. 
And the talk was of mankina 

" * Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 

Float anear in upper blue : 

Art thou yet a prophet true ? 

Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 

Things that be, and have not been. 

Thou art free o' the world, for naught 

Can despoil thee of thy thought ?' 

Nay, but make me music yet, 

Bird, as deep as my regret ; 

For a certain liope hath set, 

Like a star, and left me heir 

To a crying for its light, 

An aspiring infinite. 

And a beautiful despair I 

" Ah ! no more, no more, no more 
I shall lie at thy shut door. 
Mine ideal, my desired, 
Dreaming thou wilt open it, 
And step out, thou most admired. 
By my side to fare, or sit. 



A HAVEN m A wiriTE cuTNK. sit 

Quoncliing liuiifjjer and all drouth 
Witli tlie wit of tliy fair mouth, 
Showing me the wislied prize 
In tlie cahn of thy dove'n eyes, 
Teaching mo the wonder-rife 
Majesties of human life, 
All its fairest possible sum, 
And the grace of its to come. 

" What a difference ! Why of late 
All sweet music used to say, 
'She will come, and with thee stay 
To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 
Now it rumors, ' Wait, wait, wait I "* 



A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

I SAW, wlien I looked up, on either hand, 

A i)ale high chaik-cliir, reared aloft in white ; 

A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — • 
Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. 

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 
'Washed in the bight ; above with angi-y moan 

A raven, that was robbed, sat np in view, 
Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 

'* Stand on tlty nest, spread out thy fateful wings, 
With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood. 

For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things^ 
Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 

" Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and despair ; 

None love thee, none ! Their father was thy foe, 
Whose father in his youth did know thy lair. 

And steal thy little demons long ago. 



m A RA VEN' m A WHITE CltlNE. 

" Tlum nijidest many chiUlless for t'^eir sake, 
And picked out many eyes that loved the light. 

Cry, thou black jjroplietess I sit up, awake, 

Forebode ; and ban them through the dcsolatk 
night." 

Lo ! while I spake it, witb a crhnson hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 

And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 

" Nay, thou mayest cry, the omen is not thine, 
Thou aged priestess of fell dooni, and fate. 

It is not blood : Ihy gods aie making wine, 
They spilt the must oulside their city giile, 

" And stained their a/.ure pavement with the lees ; 

They will not listen though thou cry nUuid. 
Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at Ikm- ease, 

Noi' hears ; the fair hag. Luck, is in her shroud. 

" They heed not, they withdraw the sky-luing sign \ 
Thou hast no charm against the favorite lace ; 

Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine ; 
There is no justice in their dwelling-place ! 

** Safe in their father's house the boys sliall rest, 
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie \ 

Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest : 

Ory, thou bluck proplietest 1 lift iii> ! cry, cry !* 



THE IVARBLING OF BLACK-BIRDS. C rj 



THE WARI5L1NG OF BLACK-BTRDS. 

WincN I hear the waters rmttiiig, 
Wlicii I see tli(^ (rliesf nut letting 
All her lovely l)l()ss()m falter down, I think, "Ala* 
the (lay !" 
Otiee, with inagioal sweet singing, 
Blackbirds set \\\(\ woodland riiiiriiiLT. 

rill I . ^ r^ o ' 

J hat awakes no more while April hours wear them- 
selves away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay sniiling, 
Sweet- as ;iir, and ail hegiiiling ; 
And then! hung a mist of blu(;bellH on tlie slope and 
down the (h'll ; 
And we talked of joy and splendor 
That the years uid)orn would render, 
And the blaekhirds helped us with the story, for thej 
kn^'w it well. 

Piping, tluti:ig, " Bees are humming, 
April's here, and summer's coming ; 
Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in 
pride and joy ; 
Think on us in alleys sliady. 
When you step a grac(;ful lady ; 
For no fairer day have wo to hope for, little girl and 
l)<)y. 

"Laugh and play, O lisj)ing waters, 
Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, () wind, arid rock their h^afy cradle in thy 
wanderings coy ; 
When they wake, w(i'll end the measure 
With a. wild swe(ft cry of pleasure, 
And a ' lley down derry, let's be merry I HttU' girl 
and boy 1 ' " 



214 SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 



SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea, 

And said, " O Arorld, how cold thou artt 

Thou poor white world, I pity thee, 
For joy and warmth from thee depart. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
Winds on the crag each other chase, 

In little powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

" The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I, beside this watery brim, 
Am also lonely, also cold." 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 

Where many mews made twittering sweet ! 
Their wings upreared, the clustering flock 

Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and washed it while they fed ; 

Their fond and foolish ecstasy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 

Joy companied with every cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen win^, 

That heaving sea, that shaded sky, 
And in themselves, and in their kind. 

The phantoms of the deep at play ! 

What idloss graced the twittering things} 
Luxurious paddlings in the spray, 

And delicate lifting up of wings. 



LAURANCE.' ai« 

*liefl all at once a flipflit, and fast 

Tlic lovely crowd Hew out to sea ; 
If mine own life had boon recast, 

Karth had not looked more changed to me; 

"- Where is the cold ? Yon clouded skies 
Have only dropped their curtains low 

lo shade the old mother where she lies, 
Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. 

"The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 

Not in the snows that lap \\\v. lea. 
Not in your Avings that beat afar. 

Delighting, on the crested sea ; 

" No, nor in yon exultant wind 

That shakes the oak and "bends the pine 

Look near, look in, and thou shalt lind 
No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine I " 

With that I felt the gloom depart, 
And thoughts within me did unfold, 

Whose sunshine warmed me to the heait ; 
I walked in joy, and was not cold. 



LAURANCE. 

I. 

ITe knew she did not love him ; but so long 

As rivals were unknown to hijn, he dwelt 

At case, and did not find his love a j)ain. 

He had much deference in his nature, need 

To honor, — it became him : ho was frank. 

Fresh, hai'dy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 

Looked all things straight in the face. So when she 

came 
Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 
No more, but colored to his healthful brow, 



216 . LAURANCE. 

And wished himself a Letter man, and thoiTght 

On cei'tain things, and wished tliey were undone, 

Because her girlish innocence, the gi-ace 

Of ber unbleniislied pureness, wrought in him 

A longing and aspiring, and a shame 

To think how wicked was the world, — ihat world 

Which he must walk in, — while from her (and sucl 

As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 

A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 

In some enchanted ring. 

In his young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly took 
For granted ; there he set her with her crown. 
And at her first enthronement he turned out 
Much that was best away, for unaware 
His thoughts grew noble. She was always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to her, 
And like to what he thought her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, 
A rieli, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — 
Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 
To these one daughter had been born, one child. 
And as she grew to woman, " Look," they said, 
" She must not leave us ; let us build a wing, 
With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; 
There may she dwell, with her good man, and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth 
Married a curate, — handsome, poor in purse, 
Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived 
Under her father's roof as they had planned. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
The house with children ; four were born to them 
Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 
Among the poor. The curate, never slack 
In duty, praying by the sick, or, worse. 



LA URANCE. 217 

Burying the dead, wlien all the air was clogged 
With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
lie lifted from the pillow, there was left 
One only of that pretty flock : his girls. 
His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping wife 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, 
That first they marveled at her, then they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, 
Lamenting, and not sparing ; but she sighed, 
" Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
" Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon, 
O, when you see this other little face, 
You will, please God, be comforted." 

She said, 
" I shaK not live to see it ; " but she did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright 
When she would plead with them, " Take me away. 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chilis my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
Then all they journeyed south together, mute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the sun. 
In gardens edging the blue tideless main, 
Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts^ 
And all went better for a while ; but not 
For long. They sitting by the orange trees 
Once rested, and the wife was very still : 
A woman with narcissus flowers heaped up 
Let down her basket from her head, but paused 
With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
Taking a white wild face upon her breast. 
The little babe on its poor mother's knees. 
None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 



The t'adin2; inotlier could not stay behind, 
Jlcr lu'.-irl was broken : but it awed them most 
To feel they must not, dared not, pray ior life, 
ISoeing .she longed to go, and went so gladly. 
After, these three, who loved each other well, 
IJrought their one child away, and they were beet 
Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
The father with the mother talked of lier, 
Their daughtci-, but the husband nevermore ; 
lie looked for scliice in his work, and gave 
His mind to teach l)is boy. And time went on, 
Until the graudsire ))rayed those other two, 
" !Nlow part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
lie rides and knows it ; choose for him a school, 
Let him have all the advantages, and all 
Good training that should make a gentleman.'* 

With tliat they parted from their boy, and lived 

Longing between his holidays, and time 

Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 

His father loved him, wished to make of him 

Another j)arson ; but the farmer's wife 

iMurmured at that — " No, no, they learned bad wayi 

They ran in debt at college ; she had heard 

That many rued the day they sent their boys 

To college ; " and between the two broke in 

His graudsire, " Find a S(d)er, honest man, 

A scholar, for our lad should see the world 

While he is young, that he may marry young. 

He will not settle and be satisfied 

Till he has run about the world awhile. 

Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth. 

And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 

A sober man bi'ing foujid lo trust him with,^ 

<)ne with the fear of God before his eyes." 

And he prevailed ; the careful father chose 

A tutor, young, the worthy matron thought, — 

In truth, not ton years older than her boy. 

And glad is hv> to range, and keen for snows, 

Desert, and ocean. And they made strange cb%ii(w 



LA VRANCE. Bit 

Cil where to j^o, left flio sweet day ln^hind, 

And puslicd up north in whaling ships, to feel 

What cold was, set; the blowing whale come up. 

And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 

Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg 

Then did the trappera have tlunn ; and they heard 

Nightly the wliiRtling calls of forest-men 

That mocked the forest wonders ; and they saw 

Over the oi)en, raging up like doom. 

The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes — 

The bisons. 80 v\'ere three years gone like one ; 

And the old cities drew them for awhile, 

Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 

They have hid many sons hard by their seats, 

But all the air is stirring with them still. 

The waters murmur of them, skies at eve 

Arc stained with their rich blood, and every sound 

Means men. 

At last, the fourth year running out, 
The youth came home. An<l all (he cheerful house 
Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
Was full of joy. l>ut in the father's heart 
Abode a painful doubt. " It is not well ; 
lie cannot s})end his life with dog and gun, 
I do not care that my one son should sleep 
Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
Oidy to ride to cover." 

Not the less 
The grandsire j)on<lered. " Ay, the boy must work 
Or si'KNi) ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
Awhile with us, and then from time to time 
Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
With whom, these many years, at school, and now. 
During his sojourn in the foreign townH, 
lie has been made familiar." 'J^hus a montli 
Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, 
The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, 
Ever expectant of it knew not what, 



MO LA URANCE. 

But something higber than has e'er been born 

Of easy slumber and sweet conij)etence. . 

And as for liim, the while they thought and thought 

A comfortable instinct let liini know 

How tliey had waited for him, to complete 

And give a m'.'aning to (heir lives ; and still 

At home, but with a sense of newness there, 

And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, 

He oft — invading of his father's haunts, 

The study where he paased the sjlent morn — 

Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy 

The })iled-up books, uncut as yet ; or ^vake 

To guide with him by night the tube, and search, 

Ay, think to find new stars ; then, risen betimes, 

Would ride about the farm, and list the talk 

Of his hale grandsire. 

But a day came round, 
When, peering in his mother's room, 
Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped 
A door, and found the rosy grandmotlier 
Ensconced and hap))y in her special pride. 
Her store-room. She was corking syru])s rare, 
And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 

Here, after choice of certain cates well known, 
He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease. 
Sang as he watched her, till, right suddenly, 
As if a new thought came, " Goody," quoth he, 
" What, think you, do they want to do with me ? 
What have they planned for me that I should do?" 

" Do, laddie ! " quoth she, faltering, half in tears j 
*' Are you not hap]>y with us ? not content ? 
Why would ye go away ? There is no need 
That ye should do at all. O, bide at home. 
Have we not plenty ? " 

" Even so," he said \ 
" I did iiot wish to go." 



LA U RANGE. 221 

•' Nay, then," quotli she, 
'' Bo itlle ; let me see youi' blesseJ face. 
VVluir, is the horse your father chose for you 
Not to your mind ? He is ? Well, well, remain ; 
Do as yen will, so you but do it here. 
You fihpJl not want for monsy." 

But, his arras 

Folding, ho sat and twisted up his mouth 
VYith comical discomfiture. 

" What, then," 
S'lio inched, " what is it, child, that you would like ?" 
*' Why," said he, " farming." 

And she looked at \\\vq^ 
I*\jiid, fooli.^h woman that she was, to find 
Sojue fif-ness in the worker for the work, 
And she found none. A certain grace thyre was 
Of movement, and a beauty in tlie face, 
Sun-l)i'o\vned and healtliful beauty, that had come 
From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 
A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 
He walks— -why, how he walks ! if I should meet 
One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, 
And who may that be ? " So the foolish thought 
Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half 

ashamed, 
" We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 
And, with engaging sweet audacit)^, — - 
She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up, 
With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, 
" And haven't you done it ?" Quoth she, lovingl;^, 
" I think we have, laddie ; I think we have." 
** Then," quoth he, " I may do what best I like ; 
It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 
To help me in it, and to let me farm ; 
I think of getting into mischief else ! " 
" No ! do ye, laddie ?" quoth the dame, and laughed 
" But ask my grandfather, " the youth went on, 
" To let me have the farm he bought last year, 



m La VRANck. 

Tlie little one, to m;in;ii!;e. 1 like hind ; 

1 want soiiK'." And tslie, woniunlikc, gave way, 

Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word, 

And that same night njton the matter N])()ke, 

In [)resence of the lather and the ison. 

" Koger," (juoth she, " our Lauranee wants to farm j 

*' 1 thiidv he might do worse." 'i'he father f-i.t 

Mute, but right glad. The grandson, breaking in, 

Set all his wish and his ambition fortli ; 

But eunnii.gly the old man hid his joy, 

And made eonditions with a faint demur. 

Then, j>ausing, " J^et your fatlier sjieak," quoth he ; 

" 1 am content if he is." At his word 

The parson took him ; ay, atid, jiarson like, 

l*ut a religious meiining in (he work, 

Man's earliest work, and wished his son God sj)ee(i 



n. 

Thus all were satisfied, and, day by day. 

For two sweet years a ha])py course was theirs , 

Ha])pv, but yet the fortunate, the young, 

Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his Btrife,— 

A stirring of the heart, a (juiekening keen 

Of sight and hearing to the delicate 

lieauty and nuisio of an altered world — 

IJegan to walk in that mysterious light 

Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which givec 

he tiny, soriow, youth, and death, ami life, 

Intenser nu'aning ; in disquii'ting 

Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. 

Fair, nuMb'st eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 

A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. 

She never turned froni him with sweet caju'lce, 

Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hopes, 

Nor droppe<l for him lu'r heavy lashes h)w, 

But excellent in youthfid grace en me up ; 

And, ero his words wore ready, past^ing on, 



LA URANCE. Mi 

Had left liim all a-trcinl)]e ; yet made sure 
That by licr own true will, and fixed intent,^ 
She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 
He knew she did not love him, yet so long 
As of a rival unaware, ho dwelt 
All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
Knthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of loye, 
And could not <^et his lu!ad above its wave 
To search the far liorizon, or to mark 
Whereto it drifted him. 

So long, so long ; 
Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate. 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
All in tlie tolling out of noon. 

'Twas thus : 
Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; 
Across the church-yard path he walked ; the clock 
]5egan to strike, and, as lie passed the porcli,_ 
Half turning, tlirough a sense that came to him 
As of some presence in it, he beheld 
His love, and she had come for shelter there ; 
And all her face was fair with rosy l)loom. 
The blusli of haj)piness ; and one held up 
Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 
Toward it, sftting by her. (), her eyes 
Were fell of peace and tender liglit : they looked 
One moment in the uugraced lover's face 
While he was passing in the snow ; and he 
Received the story, while h<! raised his hat 
Uetiring. Then the clock left oil" to strike, 
And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 
And in a certain way he marked the snow, 
And walked, and (vx\\\i\ upon the open heath ; 
And in a certain way he marked tlie cold. 
And walked as one that had no starting-i)lace 
Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 

And he strode on toward a hollow part, 
Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, 



2S-t LA VkAMCE. 

And lie was conscious of a cry, and went, 
Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not ; 
Till a suKill farmhouse drudge, a half grown girl. 
Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 
Against the bushes, crying, " (^Jod ! O God, 

my good God, lie sends us help at last." 

Then, loolcing hard upon her, came to him 
'I'he power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 
Gliatteri'd, and all her limbs with shuilderiiig fa!h'(i, 
And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 
That looked on him with •wondering, wistful eyes. 
"1 thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears 
"Kintl sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, 
As praying him to take it ; and he did ; 
And gave to her the shawl and swathed his charge 
In the foldings of his plaid ; and when it thrust 
Its small round face against his breast, and felt 
With small red haiuls for warmth, unbearable 
Pains of great pity rent l)is straitened heart. 
For the poor uj)laiid dwellers had been out 
8ii'.ce morning dawn, at early milking-time, 
"Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now. 
Lamed with a fall, half eri|)p.led by the cold, 
Hardly prevailed his arm to «lrag her on, 
That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 
Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling througJi 
The girat white storm coming, and coming yet. 
And coming till the world confounded sat 
With all her fair f.imiliar features gone. 
The mountains muilU'd in an eddying swirl. 
He led or bore them, and the little one 
±*eered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft wt)uk- 

niourn 
The eider, " They will beat me : O my can, 

1 left my can of milk upon the moor." 
Ami hecompn-ed \\c\- trouble with his own, 

A:id had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keea ; 
It tilled her to the putting down of pam 
And hunger, — what could his do more? 



Z-4 URANCE 22a 

lit' brought 
JPhe children to their lioino, and suddenly 
Regained hiiiiHt'lf, nud, wondering jit hinisdf, 
Thj-t he had borne, and yet been dinnb tso h)ng, 
The weary wailing of (h(! girl, he [taid 
Money to buy her pardon ; heard I hem say, 
•' Peace, we liave feared for you ; forget the uiilki 
It, is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And wa<led in the snow, and (juietly 
( 'onsidered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder o** Ids days. 



With duHk lie wan at home, and felt it good ' 

To hear his kindred talking, for it broke 

A mocking endless eelio in Ids soid, 

" ft is no matter 1" aii<l he eould not chooHe 

i5iit mutter, though the weariness o'ereamo 

His H[)irit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace. 

It is no rmitter I " For he felt that all 

Was ivs it had been, and his Other's hejirt 

Was easy, knowing not how that same day 

Hope with her tender colors and delight 

(lie should not (rare to have him know) were dead 

Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear. 

It was no matter. And lie heard them talk 

Of limber felled, of certain fruitful fields, 

And profitable markets. 

All for him 
Their jdans, and yet tlio echoes swaiinet. and swaw 
About his head, wheruiver there was pause ; 
" It is no matter 1 " And his greater self 
Arose in him and fought. " It matters much, 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they slioidd know it. I will hide 
The wound : ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 
What ! shnll I make these three to drink of rii«, 
because my cup is bitter ?" And he thrust 
Himself in thought away, and made his eai-H 
Teftrken ^nd C9.used his vojco, that yet (lid Bcooi 



B26 LA URANCE. 

Another, to make answer, when they spoke, 
As there had been no snow-storm, and no porch, 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Until the snow had melted from the wold, 
And he, one noonday, wandering uj) a lane, 
Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved ; his speech 
Faltered ; but^ when the common kindly words 
Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, 
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
" Muriel ! " he cried ; and when she heard her name 
She turned. " You know I love you," he broke out. 
She answered, " Yes," and sighed. 

" O, pardon me^ 
Pardon me," quoth the lover ; " let me rest 
In certainty, and hear it from your mouth : 
Is he with wliom I saw you once of late 
To call you wife ? " " I hope so," she replied j 
And over all her fnce the rose-bloom came. 
As, thinking on that other, unaware 
Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on hej, 
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
A (luickened sense of his great impotence 
To drive away the doom got hold on him ; 
He set his teelh to force the unbearable 
Misery back ; his wide-awakened eyes 
Flashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet. 
And trembled at the deep she could not sound,— ^ 
A passionate nature in a storm, — a heart 
Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

« Farewell," he said, 
Recovering words ; and, when she gave her han<^. 
" Mv thanks for your good candor ; for I feel 



LA U RANGE. 287 

TKit it Ims cost you soincitliliiuj." Then tlio blush 
Y«'t <»ii licr r.icc, slio s;ii(l : " It was your duo : 
MuL kt'cp this uiaM.cr iVoui your fricuds aud kin, 
Wo wouhl not, havo it known," Tlicn, cohl iin<l ])rou<i, 
l>('causo lliorc! h'apcd from inuh'r his s(raiLi;ht lids. 
And instantly was vcih'd, a kcH'ii surprise, — 
" I hi wills it, and I thc-roforo think it well." 
iMicroon tlu^y parted ; hut from that time forth, 
Wlu'tlicr t licy nu't on festal eve, in lield, 
Or at the (^luireii, slnt ever hore liei"S(>If 
Proudly, for sho ha<l felt a certain pain ; 
The disMppi-oval hastily hetrayed 
And ((uiekly iii(hlcMi hurt her. " 'Twas a pjraiie,'* 
She tliouj^ht, " to tel! this man the thinuj he asked, 
And ho rewards nio with Hur))ris(^ 1 like 
No oiui's surprise, and l(>ast of all bestowed 
Where he IxiStowed it." 

Tbit the sprinjj^ came on. 
Lookint^ to wed in April, all her tliouti^ht.H 
Wrew lovin<:f ; she would fain the world had waxed 
More happy with her ha,ppinews, and oft 
Walkiui;' aMn>n<^ the llowery woods she fi'lt 
riuiir loveliness reivoh down into her heart, 
And knew with them the ecstasies i)f growt.h, 
The rai)t,ure t,hat was^satisfied with light, 
nie pleasures of the leaf in ex(juisite 
Kxpansion, through the lovely, longed-for spring. 

And as for him — (Some narrow liearl-s there are 

'lliat sulfer hli^ht when that they fed upon, 

As sonu'tliinuj t,o eouij>let,e their being, fails, 

And they r(it,ir(! into their holes ami pine, 

And long restrained grow stern. ]>ut some there art 

That in a saere<l want and luniger rise, 

And draw tlu^ misei-y home and liv(i with it, 

And ex(iellent in honor wait, and will 

That HouH'what good should yet, he found in it, 

Kls(! wluM-efon! were they ])orn V) — and as for hilB, 

Ue loved her, but his peace and welfare made 



M8 LA URAKCE. ^ 

Tlie sunshine of throe lives. The cheerful grange 

Tlirew open wide its liospifahle doors 

And dre\v in guests for liiin. Tlie garden tiowerSv 

Sweet hudding wonders, all were set for hira. 

In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 

And if he did hut laugh the ear approved. 

What then ? He dwelt among them as of old. 
And taught his mouth to smile. 

And time went on, 
Till on a morning, when the perfect Spring 
Kested among her leaves, he, journeying horn© 
After short sojourn in a neighboring town, 
Stopped at the little station on the line 
That ran between his woods ; a lonely plact 
And quiet, and a woman and a child 
(lOt out. He noted them, but, walking on 
Quickly, Mcnt back into tiie wood, impelled 
I>y hope, for, j^assing, he had seen his love, 
And s]\e Avas sitting on a rustic seat 
Tliat overlooked the line, and he desired. 
With longing indescribable, to look 
K|)on her face again. And he drew near. 
She was right happy ; she was waiting there. 
lie felt that she Mas waiting fc^r her lord. 
She cared no wit if Laurance went or staid, 
Ihit ansMcred when he spoke, and dropped her chcel 
In her fair hand. 

And he, not fthle yet 
To force himself away, and nevermore 
Behold her, gathered blossoms, primrose flowers, 
And wild anemone, for many a dump 
(tvcw all about him, and the hazel nnls 
Were nodding with their i-atkins. Hut he heart 
The stopjnng train, and felt that he must go ;' 
ITis time was come. Tlu've was naught else to ^o 
Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near. 
And would have had her take it from his hand ; 



LA URAA'CE. 239 

But she, lialf lost in tliouglit, licki out hei* own, 
And then, remeiuberiug ])iiu :uid his long love, 
She said, "I tliJiuk you ; pray you now forget, 
Forget nie, Lauraiu-e," and lier lovely eyes 
Sol'tened ; but lie avus dumb, till through the trees 
Suddenly broke upon their quietude 
The n'oinaa and lier child. ^Vnd ^luriel said, 
"What will you?" Slie nuide answer quick and 

keen, 
" Vour name, my lady ; 'tis your name I want. 
Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased. 
But with a musing sweetness on her mouth. 
As if considerinti: in how short a while 
It wouhl be changed, she lifted up her face 
And gave it, and the little child drew near 
And pulled lu>r gown, and prayed her for the flowei*s. 
Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, 
Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke : 
" Your errand witli this lady ?" — " And your right 
To ask it ?" she broke out with sudden heat 
And passion : " What is that to you? Poor child I 
Madam !" And Muriel lifted up her face 
And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 

" That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman 

cried, — 
*' That man with whom you think to wed so soon,—. 
You must not heed him. What ! the world is full 
Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, 
lietter than he, — that I should say it ! — far 
]5etter." Ana down her face the large tears ran. 
And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, 
Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; 
And Laurance stared about him, half in doubt 
If this were real, for all things were so blithe, 
And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; 
The child was singing, ami the black-birds ])iped, 
Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both 
Were quiet, gazing in each other's eves. 
He found his voice, and spoke : " TIuk is not well, 



230 LA URANCE- 

Though whom you speak of should have done yoxi 

Avrong ; 
A man that could desert and plan to wed 
Will not his purpose yield to God and right, 
Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, 
If you be come this day to urge a claim, 
You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 
'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, 
Sorrowful, hateful story I " 

Muriel sighed, 
With a dull patience that he marveled at : 
" Be plain with me. I know not what to think. 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife ? 
Be plain with me." And all too quietly, 
With running down of tears, the answer came, 
" Ay, madam, ay ! the worse for him and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, 
And cried upon him with a bitter cry, 
Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, 
With such affright and violent anger stirred. 
He broke from out the thicket to her side, 
Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, 
She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman came 
And faced him. Then said Muriel, " O my heart, 
Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth 
And lifted up his hand and looked at it. 
And at the woman ; but a man was there 
Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himseli 
Between them ; he was strong, — a stahvart man : 
And Herbert, thinking on it, knew his name. 
" What good," quoth he, " though you and I should 

strive 
And wrestle all this April day ? A AVord. 
And not a blow, is what these women want : 
Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak 
With passion and great anguish, flung himself 
Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love 1 
O Muriel, Muriel ! " And the woman spoke, 
"Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me ; 



lA URANCE. "i^ 

And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. 
Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled you, 
Not for myself, not for your child, I know 
We are not equal." " Hold ! " he cried ; ' have done 
Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 
Get from me ! Ay, my wife, ray wife, indeed 1 
All's done. You hear it, Mui-iel ; if you can, 
O sweet, forgive me.** 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away ; her little singing child 
Went in her wake ; and Muriel dropped her hands, 
And sat before these two that loved her so, 
Mute and unheeding. There were angry words. 
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
And kissed her foi'ehead once, and then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed. 
And presently, and soon, O, — he was gone. 



She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone. 
Remained beside her ; and she put her hand 
Before her face again, and afterward 
She heard a voice, a'S if, a long way off, 
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
Her passive from her seat. So then she knew 
That he would have her go with him, go home, — 
It was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, 
Had, in her youth, and for a place and home. 
Married the stern old rector ; and the girl 
Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had no kin 
Nearer than they. And Laxirance brought hei in, 
And spared to her the telling of this woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat apart, 
And laid before them all the cruel thing. 
As he had seen it. After, he retired; 



93d LArJiAA'CB. 

And restless, and not master of himself, 

He day and night haunted tlie rectory lanes ; 

And all things, even to the spreading out 

Of leaves, their flickering Khadows on the ground, 

Or sailiiig of the slow, ■white cloud, or peace 

And glory and great light on mountain heads,— 

All things were leagued against him, ministered 

By likeness or by contrast to his love. 

But what was that to Muriel, though hor peace 
He would have ]>nrchased for her with all prayers, 
And costly, passionate, despaii-ing tears? 
O, what to her that he should find it worse 
To bear her life's undoing than his own ? 



She let him see lier, and she made no moan, 

But talked full calmly of indiiferent things. 

Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 

And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 

With " Tjjia I cannot bear ! " and shamed to feel 

His manhood giving way, and utterly 

Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, 

Made haste and from the window sjn-ang, and paced. 

Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. 

She suffered, and he could not make her well 
For all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
And now his passionate nature, set astir, 
Fought with the pain that could not be endured ; 
And like a wild thing, suddenly aware 
That it is caired, which Hinos and bruises all 
Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged 
Against the misery : then he made all worse 
With tear's. But when he came to her again, 
Willing to talk as they had talked before, 
She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, 
" I know you have beon crying : " and she bent 
Ilor own fair head and wept. 



LAURA AT CE. 939 



She felt the cold — 
The freezing cold that deadened all her life — 
Give way a little ; for this passionate 
Sorrow, and all for hcv, relieved her heart, 
And brought some natural warnith, some natural team 



III. 

And after that, though oft he sought her door, 

He might not see her. First they said to him, 

"She is not well ;" and aft(?rwards, " ller wish 

Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 

They took her from the place, because so fast 

She faded. As for him, — though youth and strength 

Can bear the weight as of a world, at last 

The burden of it tells, — he heard it said, 

AVhen autumn came, "The ])oor sweet thing will die: 

That shock was mortal." And he cared no more 

To hide, if yet he couhl have hidden, the blight 

That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south 

To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, 

Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to them, 

Praying that he might see her ere she died. 

So in her patience she permitted him 
.To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 
And as for her that Avas to die ao soon, 
AVhat did it signify? She let hini weep 
Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spok9 
Pitying words, and then they made him go. 

It was enough, they said; her time was short. 
And he had seen her. He had seen, and felt 
The bitterness of death ; but he went liorae, 
Being satisfied in that great longing now, 
And able to endure what mio-ht befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
She lay at the door nf death, that opened not 



234 LAURANCE. 

To take her in ; for wlien the days once roore 

Began a little to increase, she felt, — 

And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 

She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 

And dreamed that she was walking in that wood 

With her two feet among the primroses. 



Then when the violet opened, she rose up 

And walked. The tender leaf and tender light 

Did solace her ; but she was white and wan, 

The shadow of that Muriel in the wood 

Who listened to those deadly words. , 

And now 
Empurpled seas Began to blush and bloom, 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder-rose 
In a great stillness dropj^ed, and ever dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it Jay, 
And drifted not at all. The lilac spread 
Odorous essence round her ; and full oft, 
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, 
She, faded, sat among the May-tide bloom, 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, 
Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat 
Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This again 
Another day, and she was vexed, for yet 
She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot 
Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 
"Laurance ! " And all impatient of unrest 
And strife, ay, even of the sight of tliem. 
When he drew near, with tired, tired lij^s. 
As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 
" Why have you done this thing ? " He answered h^r, 
"I am not always master in the fight ; 
I could not help it ** 



LA UKANCE. 2S5 

« What I " she sighed, " not yet i 
0, t am sorry ; and she talked to him 
As one who looked to live, imploring him, — 
"Ti-y to forget me. Let your fancy dwell 
Elsewhere, nor me enrich Ti^ith it so long ; 
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me I " 

He made answer, " I will try : 
The task will take me all my life to learn, 
Or, were it learned, I know not how to live ; 
This pain is part of life and being now, — 
It is myself; but yet — but I will try." 
Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home, 
His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; 
She bade him think of them. And not her wordi. 
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his life. 
And all the summer heard it said of her, 
" Yet, she grows stronger ; " but when autumn came 
Again she drooped. 

A bitter thing it is 
To lose at once the lover and the love ; 
For who receiveth not may yet keep life 
In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, 
This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, 
jSTot only from her present had withdrawn. 
But from her past, and there was no such man. 
There never had been. 

He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holda 
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, 
Till, after transient stay, all unaware 
It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 
In memory, — loved till death He was not vile ; 
For who by choice would part with that j>ure bird, 
And lose the exiiltation of its song ? 
He had not strength of will to keep it fast. 



Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 
Of thought to make the echo sound for him 
^ After the song was done. Pity tliat man : 
His music is all flowu, and he forgets 
The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 
'Twas no great mat ter But he was not vile, 
Only a thing to pity most in man, 
Weak, — only poor, and, if he knew it, undone, 
]3ut Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 
Would fain have hidden him forevermore. 
Even from herself, — so pure of speech, so frank, 
So full of household kindness. Ah, so good 
And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 
Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 
In God, and faith .n her, this man had seemed. 

Ay, he was gone ! and she whom he had wed. 
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, 
From her small store, money to help her need, 
With, " Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 

What more ? she died. 
Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly. 
Wrote of the end. " Our sister fain had seen 
Her husband ; prayed h ni sore to come. But no. 
And then she ])rayed him that he would forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the tiuth to you. 
Dear IMadani, he was angry, yet we think 
He might have let her see, before she died, 
The words she wanted, but he did not write 
Till she was gone, — ' 1 neither can forgive, 
Nor would I if I could.'" 

" Patience, my heart I 
And this, then, is the man I loved 1 " 

But yet 

He sought a lower level, for he Avrote, 
Telling the story Avith a different hue.—- 



LA URANCE. 23? 

Telling of freedom. Ho desired to come, 

" For now," said lie, " () love, may all be well." 

And slie rose up against it in her soul, 

For she despised him. And with passionate tears 

Of sliame, she Avrotc, and only wrote these words,— 

" Herbert, I will not see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise; 
And all lier strength, when autumn leaves dowi 

dropped 
Fell from her. " Ah I " she thought, " I rose up once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, " It is the end." 

Hut when that other heard, " It is the end," 
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled against it, but his will 
Required it of him with a craving strong 
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. 

She, when she saw his face, considered hira 

Full quietly, let all excuses pass 

Not answered, and considered yet again. 

'■'. He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he came ?" 
What could he do, indeed ? — a Aveak white girl 
Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand ; 
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers. 
And not his own. 

She looked, and pitied hiin. 
Then spoko : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah me ! that I might get away from it. 
Or, better, hear it said that love is not. 
And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
I think, — so short." And roused against himBelf 
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 



238 LA URANCE. 

Her to disquiet whoiu lie loved, — ay, her 
For whom he would have given all his rest, 
If there were any left to give, — he took 
Her words up bravely, promising once more 
Absence, and praying })ardon ; but some tears 
Droj)}>ed quietly upon her cheek. 

" Remain,** 
She said, " for there is something to be told, 
Some words that you must hear. 

" And first, hear this s 
God lias been good to me ; you must not think 
That I despair. There is a quiet time 
Like eveninsj: in mv soul. I have no heart. 
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, 
And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind 
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is ; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes ; he looked, 
JJut answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
Far .otherwise than she had willed : thev said, 
" Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her words went on. 
Cold, and so quiet, "I have sutfered much. 
And r would fain that none mIio care for me 
Should sulfer a like i>ang that 1 can spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
" I have brought my mind of late to think of this ; 
That since your life is spoilt (not Avillingly, 
My God, not M'illingly by nu"), 'twere well 
To give you choice of griefs. 

*' "Were It not best 
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Remote, and left not in your house and life 
Aught to remind you ? That indeed were best. 
But were it best tp weep for a dead wif^ 



LAURANCE. tS& 

And let the sorrow spend and natisfy 

Itself with 9)1 expression, and so end ? 

I tliiiik not so ; but if for you 'tis best, 

llien, — do lot answer with too sudden words : 

It matters much to you ; not mucli, not much 

To nu',-^ then truly I will die your wife ; 

I will marry you. " 

What was he like to say. 
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to his heart. 
Cherish it, make it j)art of him, and watch 
Those eyes, that were his light, till they should close ? 

Tie answered Iier with eager, faltering words, 

" I choose, — ray heart is yours, — die in my arras." 

Hut was it well ? Truly, at fii-st, for him 

It was not well : he saw lier fade, and cried, 

" Wlien may this be ? " She answered, " When you 



will," 



And (;arod not much, for very faint she grew, 

Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, 

" If I could slip away before the ring 

Is on my hand, it wc^re a blessed lot 

For both, — a blessed tiling for him and me.* 

]>ut it was not so ; for the day had come, — 

Was over : days and months had come, and Death, — 

Witliiu whose shadow she had lain, which made 

Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness. 

Indifferent, — Dc^ath withdrew himself, and life 

^Voke up, and found that it was folded fast, 

!)rawn to another life forevermore. 

(), what a waking ! After it there came 

(h'cat silence. She got uj) once more, in spring, 

And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 

She thought within lierself, " What have I done? 

How shall I do the rest ? " And he, who felt 

Her inmost thought, Avas silent even as she. 

" What have we done ? " she thought. But as for him 



340 LA URANCE, 

Wlioii she began to look hiin in the face, 

(■oiisideving, " Tlius and tluis his featnres are," 

For she had never thonght on them before, 

She read their grave repose aright. Slie knew 

That in the stronghohl of his lieart, held back, 

Hidden reserves of measureless content 

Kept house with liappy thought, for lier sake inuto 

Most patient IVFuriel I when he brought her home, 
She took the place they gave her, — strove to jdeasc 
His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 
*' "What have I done ? how shall I do the rest ? 
Ah ! so contented, Laurance, with this wife 
That loves you not, for all the stateliness 
And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps 
In your blue eyes." And after that awhile 
She rested from such thinking, put it by 
And waited. She had thought on death before: 
But no, this Muriel was not yet to die ; 
And when she saw her little tender babe, 
She felt how much theha])])y days of life 
Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing. 
Whom when it slept the loA'cly mother nursed 
With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed 
And wondered at, and lost herself in loni»" 
Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, 
Her husband and his father standing nigh. 
About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
And consequence, so deep in learned talk 
Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, 
Broke off to say, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." Atid the thought was new 
To JMuiicl ; she looked up, and when she looked, 
Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
Flushing lu'r face, would fain he had not known, 
Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
Yet there was pleasure in his smile and love 
Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his bab^ 



LA UliANCE. 841 

With " Goody, you aio left in chiirge, take care." 
"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
And they were gone. 

Then Muriel, lost in thought, 
Gazed ; and the grandniotliei-, widi ()])en pi-ide, 
Tended the lovely pair ; till Muriel said, 
" Is she 80 like? Dear granny, get me now 
The picture that his father has ;"" and soou 
The old woman put it in her hand. 

The wife, 
Considering it with deep and strange delight, 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 

A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, 

A brow, the harbor of grave thought, and hair 

Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 

Remembering now, wheTi she had looked on him. 

The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
She kept it ; while her beauty and her babe 
Flourished together, and in health and peace 
She lived. 

Her liusband never said to her, 
"Love, are you haj)py ?" never said to her, 
"Sweet, do you love me? "and at first, when'er 
They rode together in the lanes, and paused, 
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, 
\\\ the shadow of a tree, to watch the ch)uds, 
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
That topped the niouiilains, — when she sat by him, 
A^ithdrawn at, even whih; the sunnner stars 
Jame starting out of nothing, as new made. 
She felt a little troubk;, and "a wish 
Tliat he woidd yet keep sik'uee, and he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, but still 
Respected. 



d43 LAUkANCn. 

Muriel grew more brave in time, 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to her. 

" Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried 
" For this is the right sort, a boy." " Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame ; " but never heed you, love^ 
He thinks them both as right as right can be." 
But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go. 
But yet he said, "I must :" and she w^as left 
Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
Was like a mother's ; and the two could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 

That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 

" Ay, love," the dame made answer ; " for he said, 

* Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 

No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 

Any disquietude apjDcar to you. 

Say what you know.'" " What?" Muriel said, and 

laughed, 
*'■ I ask, then." 

" Child, it is that your old love. 
Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
' And might I see your wife this only once, 
And get her pardon? '" 

« Mercy I " Muriel cried, 
" But Laurance does not wish it ?" 

"Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
" He does not, surely, think I should." 



tJ URANCB. 248 

"Not he/» 
fhe kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
" Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best ? " 

And Muriel, trembling yet, 
Agreed. " I heard liim say," the dame went on, 
" For I was with him when they met that day, 

* It would not be agreeable to my wife.' " 

Then Muriel, pondering, — " And he said no more ^ 
You think he did not add, ' nor to myself ? ' " 
And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame 
Unruffled answered, " No, sweet heart, not he : 
What need he care ? " " And why not ? " Muriel cried, 
Longing to hear the answer. " O, he knows. 
He knows, love, very well : " — with that she smiled, 
" Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 
He did not know you loved him ? " 

Muriel said, 
" He never told me, goody, that he knew. " 
" Well," quoth the dame, " but it may chance, my dear 
That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 
Why need to rouse them ? You are hap})y, sure ? 
But if one asks, ' Art happy ? ' why, it sets 
The tlioughts a-working. No, say I, let love, 
Let peace and happy folk alone. 

" He said, 
' It would not be agreeable to ray wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of time 
That he would ask you, when it suited you. 
To write a few kind words. " 

" Yes,'* Muriel said, 

* I can do that. " 

" So Laurance went, you see," 
The soft voice added, " to take down that child. 
Laui'ance had written oft about the child, 
And now, at last, the father made it known 
He could not take him. lie has lost, they say, 



244 SdA'GS OF 77/ F. KtCflT ]VATCHES. 

Ilis tiiDiiey, with inucli gambling ; now he wanl8 
To Icail a good, true, working life, lie wrote. 
And let tiiis so be seen, tliat Lauranee went 
And took the cliild, and took the money down 
'J^o pay. » 

And IVruriel found her talking sweet, 
And asked onee more, the rather that she longed 
To speak again of Lauranee, " And you think 
lie knows I love him ? " 

" Ay, good sooth, he knowi 
Ko frar ; but he is like his father, love. 
His father never asked my jtretty ehild 
One prying question ; took her as she was ; 
Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
A woman's nature. Lauranee is the same. 
lie knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
No, never. Some men are such gentlemen ! " 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OP EVENING, AND A 
CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

(Old English Manntr.) 

APPRENTICED. 

• Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, 
the owlet hoot ; 
Yon creseent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim bo- 
hind the tree, O ! 
Tlie dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest 
lass, and sweetest lass ; 
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the 
croft with me, O I " 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WA TCHES. 247 

' My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her 
reel, and drops her reel ; 
^\y father witli his crony talks as gay as gay can 
be, O ! 
IJiit all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, 
ere light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad. 
with thee, 01" 

"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love ia * 
strong and love is strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the time, thai takes so 
long to flee, O ! 
And thou, my lass, by morning's light wa>Jt all in 
white, wast all in wjiite, 
And parson stood within the rails, a-marryino -ne 
and thee, O." 



THE FIRS r WATCH. 

TIIIKU. 
I. 

O, I "WOULD tell you more, but I am tired ; 

For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
I ])leaded in my spirit, I desired : 

" Ah I let me only see him, and be still 
All my days after." 

Rock, and rock, and rock. 
Over the falling, rising watery world, 

Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ; 
The chirping land birds follow flock on flock 

To liglit on a warmer ]>lain. 
White as weaned latnbs the little wavelets curled. 
Fall over in harmless play. 
As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, 
All under thy broad wings that ovn-sbadow thea 



246 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WA TCHES. 



n. ' 

I am so tired, 
If I would comfort me, I know not how, 
For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, 
And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, 

Often and often, while the light g)'ew dim, 
And through the lilac branches I could see, 
Under a saffron sky, the purple rim 
O' the heaving moorland ? Ay. And then would 

float 
Up from behind — as it were a golden boat. 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, 
Love — such a slender moon, going up and up. 
Waxing so fast from night to night. 
And SAvelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, 

Fated, methnught, to round as to a golden cup, 
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon, 
Ship of the sky ! 
Across the unfurrowed reaches. sailing high. 

Methought that it would come my way full soon, 
Laden with blessings that were all, all mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife. 
That ere its day was done should hear thee call me 
wife. 



ni. 

All over I the celestial sign hath failed ; 
The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed 
And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. 
The love that fed on daily kisses dietli ; 
The love kept warm by nearness lieth. 
Wounded and wan ; 
The love hope nourished bitter tears distilg, 
And faints with naught to feed upon. 



SOJVGS OF THE NIGHT IVA TCHES. 247 

Only there stirretli very deep below 

The hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 

Of the inve that conquers death. 

IV. 

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fearj 
My ever, ray only dear ? 
Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy way. 
So sure that we should meet 
fjpon oiir trysting-day. 
And even absence then to me was sweet 
Because it brought me time to brood 
Upon thy dearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and staj-, 
And let that moon of April wane itself away. 

And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the glossy finch forego her tune 
That she brought with her in the spring, 
And nevermore, I think, to me can sing ; 
And then to lead thee home another bride, 
In the sultry summei--tide, 
And all forget me save for shame full sore. 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See ray face no 



raore." 



V. 

O tard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart, 
Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart, 
Ached to itself in vain, 
One came who loveth rae 
As I love thee. , . . 
And let my God remember him for this. 
As I do hope He will forget thy kisB, 
Nor visit on thy stately head 
Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyeg 
have said, » . « 



248 SOXGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

He came, and it was dark. He ennie, and sigliod 
Because he ktiew the Borrow, — wlnsjiorinjjj low, 
And fast, and thick, as one (hat speaks by rote : 
" The vessel lieth in the river reach, 

A niile ahovc the beach, 
And she will sail at the turning o' the tide.* 
lie said, " I liave a boat, 
Ar.d Avere it good to go, 
And inibcholden in (he vessel's \\ako 
Look on (he man (houlovedst, and forgive. 
As he embarks, a shameful fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 



VI. 

O, how he sighed 1 The little stars did wink, 
And it was very dark. I gave my hand, — 
lie led me out across (he |)as(ure land, 
Aud tlirough (he narrow croft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
When (luMi was^ full in s|uiug, thou li((le sleej<y thnig, 
The yellow (lags (hat broideretl (hee would stauii 
TTp to their chins in water, and full oft 
W'k pulled (hem and (he other shining flowers, 

That all are goiu> (onlay : 
We two, tha( had so many (lungs to saj', 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone af(er (hee, my dear,— 

Gone af(er (hose swoe( hours, 
That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
Gone " as a wind that passeth away, 
And Cometh not again." 



vn. 

I only saw (he stars, — I could not Bee 
The river, — and (hey seemed to lie 

As far below as (he o(her s(:vrs were high, 
I trembled like a thing about to die : 



SOArCS OP 77//': A'JG//7' IVA TCIIES. 10 

It was «o awful 'ncutli tlic niiijcHty 

Of f liat tifirat crystal height tliat overhiinj^ 

Th(! l)Ia(^kii('ss at oiu- t'cet, 

Uiisccii to Ili'C't and licet 

The flocking Btarn among, 
And oidy hoar the dii»j)ing of the oar, 
And t-lie small wave'n (^•u•essing ol" the darksome shore 

VIII. 

. Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear tin* bending willows shiver. 
As wo shot (jnickly i'rom the silent I'iver, 

And felt tlio swaying and tlu; llow 
Thai, bore us down tho deeper, wider Ktroain, 

\V hereto its nameless waters go : 
O ! I shall always, when 1 shut mine eyes, 

Seo that weird sight again ; 

The lights from aiKihored vessels liung ; 

'l^he ])hanl()m moon thiit spiumg, 
[Suddenly up in dim and angry wise 

From the rim o' the moaning main, 
And touched with ellin light 
Tlie two long oars whereby we made our Hight 
Along the reaches of the night ; 

Then furrowed up a lowei'ing cloud, 

Went in, and left us darker Ihan before, 
To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, 
And lie in iiKU lee, with mournful faces bowed, 
That slioidd reccsive and bear wilh her away 
'J'he brightest ])ortion of my sunniest day, — 
The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the sborek 

IX. 

And I l)e?ie]d (hee : saw the lantern fliisli 

Down on thy face when thou didst clind) the Bide. 

And thou wert pale, j)al(! as the patient bride 

That followed : both a little sad. 
Leaving of homi! and kin. 'I'liy c<)urage glad, 

That once did bear thee on. 



250 solves OF TItE NIGHT WATCHED. 

That brow of thine liad lost ; tho fervor rash 
Of uiiforeboding youth tliou hadst foregone. 
C), what a litUe inoiiu-iit, what a eniinb 
Of comfort for a lu-art to feed u])on I 
And that was all its sum : 
A glimpse, and not a nuH'ting, — 
A drawing near by night, 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, 
And all between the flashing of a light 
And its retreating. 



Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, 
The ship, — and weighed her anchor to de})art, 
Wc stole from her dark lee, like guilty things ; 

And there was silence in my heart 
And silence in the upi)er and (he nether Jeep. 

sleep ! O sleep 1 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweeps 
Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, 

Thou kiiul, thou comforting one : 

For I liave seen his face, as I desired. 

And all my story is done. 
O, I am tired 1 



THE MIDDLK WATCIL 



I WOKE in the night, and the darkness v heavy and 
deep ; 
I had known it was dark in my sleep, 
Antl I rose and looked out. 
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 
round about 



SONGS OF THE AWCf/T IVA TC/IES. 251 

Willi the ancient inliaLiters silent, and wliecling too 

far 
h'ox man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where 
remote 
In the sheen of tl)eir glory they float, 
Or Mian'« soul, like; a hird, to ily near, of their beams 
to ])artake, 
Ami (lazed in their wak(>, 
Drt'ak day lliat is born of a star. 
1 Miiuniured, " liemoteness and greatness, how deep 
you are set, 
How afar in the rim of the Avhole ', 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 

O, nor yet 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvelous moons 
as they roll, 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on yon trembling, and think, in the dark with 

my soul, 
*• How small is our pkujc 'mid tin; kingdoms and na- 
tions of (Tod : 
These are greater than wo, every one." 
And there falls a great fear and a dread cometh ove" 
that cries, 
*' O my hope ! Ts there any mistake? 
Did He s])eak ? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if 

He s))ake? 
Did I answer Him duly ? for surely T now am awake, 

If never I -yoke until now." 
And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, playo 

on my brow. 
As a sleep, I must thiidc on my day, of my path as 

untrod. 
Or trodd<'n in di-eams, in a dreamland whose coasts 

are a doubt ; 
Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they 
grope round about, 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
^e kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling ip 
li^ht. 



S53 SONGS OF THE NIGHT IV A TC//ES, 

And feetling the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon tliis one, and lot it be sweet in Thy 
sigKt. 
I pray Thee, to-niglit. 

watch whom Thou nuxdest to dwell on its soil, Thou 

Most High ! 
For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but 

one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye 

are undone. 
For this is a world where we die. 

II. 

With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and 
that yearned 
(There fell a great calm while it s])ake), 

1 had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so 

loud, 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and 

the crowd : 
To (he simple it coraeth, — the child, or asleej), or 

awake, 
And they know not from whence ; of its nature the 

wise never learned 
]>y his wisdom ; its secret the Avorker neVr earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought 
with his gold ; 
Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, 

Nor the jester j>ut down Avith his jeers 
(For it moves Avhere it will), nor its season the 
aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of years. 

O elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
A voii'e, when the dark world is still : 

Whence cometh it '? Father Lnmortal, Thou know- 

est ! and we, — 
We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent 

us of Thee ; 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 253 

For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty 

and dread, 
And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears 

til at we shod ; 
It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
On its tongue arc the laws of our life, 
And it counts up the times of the dead. 

III. 

i will fear you, O stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep, 
(Tolden islands, fast moored in God's intinite deep. 
Uark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harp- 

ings of yore 1 
1 low they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away 
lands : 
" The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; 
Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy yeara 
are made sure ; 
They shall perish, but Tbou shalt endure, — 
They shall pass like a tale that is told." 

Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days ? 
Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of 
men ? 
(Hist ! hist ! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine 

in His praise. 
His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first ; 
it was then 
They lifted their eyes to His throne : 
' They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our 

God, Thou alone ! ' 
For 1 made them, I led them in deserts and desolate 
ways ; 
I have found them a Ransom Divine ; 
I have loved them with love everlasting, the children 
of men ; 
I swear by Myself, they are Mine." 



m\ SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHIL^ 

TIIK JMOJiNINCJ WATCH. 

THIC COMlN(i IN OK TIIK " MKUMAIDKN. 

Thk moon is hloiuiliod as white as wool 

Ami just, (lr()|.|)iiio- uiidor ; 
KviTv star is «;'t)m' hut thivo, 

And tlu'y lian*:^ far asnndor, — 
Tlioro's ii soa-ghost all in j;ray, 

A tall sha])o ol wt)n(l('r 1 

I am not satisliod wi(1> sleep, — 

'I'lie nin'lil is not I'lidtMl. 
iiut look liow (lie si'a-nliost conieo, 

Willi wan skirls cxli-ndod, 
S(4><ilin.<i: tip in this weird lionr, 

When light and dark are hlendeil 

A vi>ssi'l ! To llieold pier end 
llerliappy eonrse she's kee]>iiig ; 

I heard them name her yesd-rday : 
Some were )tali> wilh wi'i'|>iiio- ; 

Sonu' wilh I heir liiNirl-hunger sighed: 
She's in, — and they are sleeping. 

O ! now wilh faneii'd greetings Itlewt, 
They et)ni'"ort iheir long ai-hing : 

Tlie sea of slet'p hath borne to them 
What would not come with wakinjj. 

And the dreams shall most he true 
In their hlissful breaking. 



■o* 



The stars are gone, the rose-Moom eoiats 
No blush of maid is sweeter ; 

The red sun, hall" way oui oflu'd, 
JShall be the first to greet lur. 

Mone tell the news, yel sleepers wako, 
And rise, and run to meet her. 



SONGS OF riiE Nicrrr iwitci/es. sm 

rhoir l'>Ht tlii-y li.ivc, tli(!y Iiold ; I'lom luiin 

A k('(Mi('r bliss (licy horrow. 
How natiiriil in joy, my lieart I 

How easy al'lcr sorrow ! 
For oiKic, tluj best is come llial. hope 

I'romiHcd them " to-morrow." 



CONCLUDIN(; SONG OF DAWN. 

(,Old Enylluli Manner.} ' 

A MOI^N OV MAY. 

Air, tli(! clomlrt about the huh lay ii|) in goldon crcaHfii 
(Merry riiigH the; inaidcn's voice that Hings at dawn of 

<i;7) ; 

Lamhkiiis woke an<l Hkipjxid around to dry Ibcir 

dewy ih;<!C(!H, 
So Hwcetly as slie caroled, all <hi a inorn <>( May. 

Quoth the Sctrgcaut, " Here I'll halt ; liere'H wiiu; of 

joy for drinking ; 
To my li(!art she Hctw her hand, and in the KtringH 

dotii ))lay ; 
All among tli(! daffodils, and fairer to my tJiinkint;, 
And frcsli as milk and roHcs, slie sits this ii;<trn of 

May." 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Work is work, l>ut any yo , 

might make me, 
If 1 worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. 
I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but (iiku 

me. 
So sweetly as ye carol u[>on this morn of May." 

" Medals count for wortli," quoth she, "and wears art 

worn for honor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 



$56 A iTORY OF DOOM. 

All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon 

her. 
O I sweetly did sl.e carol, all on that morn of ]May. 

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast 

and faster. 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the 

dull delay : 
" Beauty I when I said a slave, I think I meant a 

master ; 
So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is st rong, and some men's 

hearts are tender." 
Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not 

au^rht to say ; 
Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel 

render, 
Though sweetly she had caroled upon that mom of 

May. 

Siiy, she sought the wooer's f.ace, and deemed the 

wooing mended ; 
Proper man he was, good wooth, and one would have 

his Avay : 
So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was 

ended. 
O 1 sweetly she did carol on that morn of May. 



A ST(>RY OF DOOM. 

BOOK 1. 

KiLoiYA said to Noah, " What aileth thee, 

My master, unto whom is m^y desire, 

The father of my sons ? " He answered her, 

"Mother of many eliildron, I have heard 

The Voice again." " Ah, me ! " slie saith, " ah, me I 

What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed. 



A ^.rCRY OF DOOM. 25? 

Thig when the iviaster-ouilder heaid, his heart 
W'as Had in him, the while he sat at home 
Ar)d rested after toil. The steady rap 
()' the shij)\vright's haminer sounding up the vale 
Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 
Niloiya laid, and to tiie doorplace went, 
Parte<l the purple covering seemly luing 
Before it, and let in the crimson light 
Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth,— 
]jOoked, and l)eheld the hollow where the ark 
Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled 
All night from leaven of old lign aloe-trees, 
Upon the glidijig river ; where the palm, 
The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 
Into the crimson hrede that dyed thy world : 
And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge^^ 
The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 
For that still river's floating, — building far 
From mightier streams, amid the pastoral delU 
Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again ; 
" What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man ?" 
He, laboring with his thought that troubled him. 
Spoke on behalf of God : "liehold," said he, 
" A little handful of inilovely dust 
lie fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
lle^laugiied upon its beauty, it waxed warm, 
And with his breath awoke a livincr soul. 

** Shall not the Fashioner command His work ? 
And who ana I, that, if he whis]>er, 'Rise. 

00 forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 

' Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons,— 

1 love not scorning ; I beseech Thee, God, 
Have me excused.' " 

She answered him, "Tell oix.' 
And he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
" What though I — like some goodly lama sunk 
\n meadow grass, eating her way at ea,ge» 



«58 4 Sf-OA' V OF DOOM. 

Unseen of them that pass, and asking not 

A wider prospect tluin of yellow flowers 

TJKit nod above her head — should lay me down, 

And willingly forget this high behest, 

There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermorcv 

Though I went iorth to cry against the doom, 

Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 

It hangeth balanced over ns ; she crieth, 

And it sliail fall. O ! as for me, my life 

Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 

That in the fullness of the time shall dawn 

That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, 

Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 

Upon theabhoiTed sea, that mankind hate, 

With thee and thine.'* 

She answered : " God forbid I 
For sir, though men be evil, yet the deep, 
They dread, and at the last will sui-ely tnrn 
To Ilim, and lie, long-sufl"ering, will forgive 
And chide the waters back to their abyss. 
To cover the ])its where doleful creatures fceil 
Sir, I am much afraid ; I would not hear 
Of riding on the waters : look you, sir, 
Better it were to die with you by hand 
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me I 
Rolling among the furiows of the unquiet, 
Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." 

He saith again : " I pray thee, woman, peace, 
For thou wilt enter, when that day api)ears, 
The fateful ship." 

« My lord," quoth she, •* I will 
But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth ; for the tnne is long 
That thou hast warned the world : thou art but h«*r* 
Three days ; the sdug of welcoming but now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad : 
And wilt thou go again ? Husband, I say, 
Be sure who 'tis that calleth ; O, be sure^ 



A STOR Y OF DOOM. 25» 

Be sure. My mother's ghost came u]) last niglit, 
Whilst I thy bf:arci, held ii) my hands, did kiss, 
Leaning aiiearthee, wakeful througli my love. 
And waiv'-ilul of ihee till the moon went down. 



"She never loved me since 1 went with thee 
To sacrif-'.'o among ihe hills . she smelt 
The holy smoke, and could no more divine 
Till the new moon. 1 saw Iser ghost come up ; 
It had a snake wiih a red comb of fire 
Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 
Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 
'This woman miglit be wis-er,' quoth the ghost ; 
'Shall there be husbands for her found below, 
When she comes down to us ? O, fool ! O, fool I 
She mu:st not let her mm go forth, to leave 
Her desolate, and rcaj) the whole world's scorn, 
A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." 

He said : " My crystal drop of perfectness, 

I i»ity thee ; it wns an evil ghost : 

Thou wilt not heed the counsel ?" "I will not,** 

Quoth slie ; "I am loyal to the Highest Him 

I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 

Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?" 

" God add," said he, " unto thy much yet more. 

As 1 do think thou art." "And tliink you, sir," 

Niloiya saith, "that I have reached the pi'ime?" 

He answering, " Nay, not yet." " 1 would 'twere so,' 

She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 

Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 

She pineth for the Master. Look you, sir, 

They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, 

And all goes merrier, Eat, my lord, of all 

My supper that I set, and afterward 

Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 

Else shall I be despised as Adnm was. 

Who compassed not the learning of his sous. 

But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 



e 



•/««• A -STOFY OF DOOM. 

And |)()K<1i'i, tollowmu «)f groat Isha's feet, 

Wlieii sIm- would walk with her fair brow u^jiaised, 

Sioriiing the cliildrec thai she bare to him.*' 

" Ay," quoth the Master , "but they did amiss 
Wii-i) thi'v dospisud their father: kuowest tho 
tiiai'V" 

'hiire he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 
''Than any that curue after. Funiiermore, 
He liiui \w\ lie-art nor conrnge foi- to rule : 
II • K't liu' muslery full from his slack hanci 
11:1(1 not our glorious mother still borne up 
liis weakness, eliid with him, and sat apart, 
And listened, when the fit e:une over him 
^^) talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
Into the slave of slaves." 

" Nay, thou must thini! 
How he liad (Ivvelt long, God's loved husbandman, 
And looked in hope among the tr "bes for one 
Ti> be his fellow, ere gre;tt Islia, < nee 
Waking, he found at his left sidi and knew 
The deep delight of speeeh." So Noah, and thug 
A<lded, " And therefore was his 1' ss the more ; 
For though the creatures he had -ingU'd out 
His favorites, dared for hiui the fiery sword 
And followe(1 after liim, — shall bh at of Iamb 
Console one for the foregone talk of God? 
Or in tliG aftermion, his faitliful dog, 
Fawning upon hitn, make iiis heart forget 
At such a time, ami sudi a time, to have heard 
What he shall hear no more ? 

" O, as for him, 

It was for this that he full oft Av<udd stop, 
And lost in thought, stand and revolve tliat deed 
Sa i mti'tering, ' Woman ! we re])roaeh thee not 
Thouu'h thou didst eat mine immortality ; 
Karth, be not sorry ; I was free to cUooee.* 



A UTOKV di DOOM. ddi 

Wonder not, tlicrefort", if be walked forlorn. 
W;»s not llie helpmeet given to raise liiia up 
From his contentment with the lower things? 
Was siie not somewhat that he could not rule 
Beyond the action, that he could not have 
By the m( re hohling, and that still aspired 
And drew hnn after her? So, when deceived 
'^^ho fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
IJy loss of upvvai'd drawing, when she took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
' Death is not as the death of lower tilings, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, 
A clianiic to being as gods,' — he from her hand. 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour, 
And ate it (not the death that she had dared); 
He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. 
Siio, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, - 
Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
r<' iind the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he, 
Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, 
And yet a-pired, and yaarned to be restored. 
Albeit she drew no more." 

" Sir, ye speak well/ 
Niloiya saith, "but yet the mother sits 
Higher than Adam. He did understand 
Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, 
But she had knowledge of the many tril)es 
Of angels and their tongues ; their playful ways 
And greetings when they met. Was she not wise? 
They say siie knew much that she never told, 
And had a voice that called to her as thou." 

** Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, " who am I 
Tiiat I should answer V As lor me, poor ma i, 
Here is my trouble • * if there be a Voice,' 
At first 1 cried, ' let me bi'hold the mouth 
That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 



A STO/? V OF DOOM. 

But afterward, I, journeying up the hills, 

Did hear it hollo vver than an echo fallen 

AcToss some clear abyss ; and 1 did stop, 

And ask of all uiy company, 'What cheer? 

If there be spii-its abroad that call to us, 

Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So they ga\ 

heed, 
And one man said, * It is the small ground-doves 
T'^xt peck upon the stony hillocks ;' one, 
' It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 
That cheweth in liis di'iam ;' and one, 'My lord. 
It is the ghost of him that yesternight 
We slew, because he grudged to yield his ^vife 
To thy great father, mIicu he peaceably 
Did semi to take her.' 'i'hen 1 answered, ' Pass,' 
And they went on ; and I did lay mine ear 
Close to the earth ; but there Ciime uj) therefrom 
No so.md, nor any sjjeech ; 1 ^\aitetl long. 
And in the saying, *1 will mount my beast 
And on,' I was as one that in a trance 
Beholdeth Avhat is coming, and I saw 
Great waters and a sliij) ; and somewhat spak^ 
* Lo, this shall be ; let him that heaieth it, 
And seetli it, go forth to warn his kind, 
For 1 will drown the world.'" 



Niloiya Baitli, 
" Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon ? " 
The Master, he replietli, " Ay, at first, 
That same was all ; but many days went by, 
While I did reason Avith my heart and ho]ie 
For more, and struggle to remain, and think, 
'Let me be certain ;' and so think again, 
' The counsel is but dark ; would 1 had more f 
When I have more to guide me, I will go.* 
And afterward, when reasoned on too much. 
It seemed remoter, then 1 only said, 
' O, would I had the same again ; ' and stUI 
I had it not. 



A STOR y OF DOOM. 

*' Then at tlio last I cried, 
*If the unseen bo silent, 1 will speak 
And (certify tny nieaninijj to niyKell'. 
Say that \\v. spoke, then He will make that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
To <,^o, and do His bidding. All the earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
When (he doom Calls, "'I'hou God art ])ard on us ; 
We knew not, 'I'hou wort angry. O I we are lost, 
Otdy for lack oi" being warnotl." 

«* But say 
That Ho s])oko not, and tncu-ely it befell 
That 1 being weary had a dream. Why, so 
ITo could not suffer damage ; when tho time 
Was p.ist, and that 1 threatened had not como, 
Men would (^ry out on me, haply me kill. 
For troubling their content. 'I'hey woidd not swear 
" God, that <lid send this man, is proved untrue," 
Jiut rather, " Jjct liim die ; he Wv.d to us ; 
(iod never sent him." Only Thou, gn^at King, 
Knowost if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 
The m.itlcr here. If Thou wilt speak ngain, 
I go in gladness ; if tliou wilt not speak, 
Nay, if thou never didst, I not the less - 
Shall go, beeaus(! I have believed, what time 
I seenu'd to hear Thee, and the going stands 
With memory of berutving.' Then I washed. 
And did array me in the sacred gown, 
And take a lamb." 

" Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
" I following, and I know not anything 
Till, th(! young land) asleej) in thy two arms, 
We, moving up among the silent hills, 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
Came near to )nak(! obeisance, and to bring 
Wood for the sacrrilice, and tui'f and lire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
' Behold, 1 know thy good fidelity. 



264 A STOR Y OF DOOM, 

And theirs that are about us ; they would guaru 

The mountain passes, if it were my will 

Awhile to leave thee ; ' and the pygmies laughed 

For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 

And put their heads down, as their manner is, 

To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept | 

Sir, I could weep uoav ; ye did ill to go 

If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 

God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go.* 

Then said the son of Lamech, *' Afterward, 
When I had left thee, He whom 1 had served 
Met Avith me in the visions of the night. 
To comfort mc for that I had withdrawn 
P'rom thy d-ear company. He sware to me 
That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
The boi'dering of mine utmost field. I say, 
When I obeyed. He made His matters plain. 
With whom could I have left thee, but with them. 
Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?'* 

She said, " I love not pygmies ; they are naught.'* 
And he, " Who made them pygmies ? " Then she 

pushed 
Her yelling hair back from her round, soft eyes, 
And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did ; 
Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 
Beside him on the settle, answering, " Ay." 
And they went on to talk as writ below, 
If any one shall read : 

« Thy mother did. 
And they that went before her. Thinkest thou 
That they did well?" 

" They had been overcome j 
And when Ihe angered conquerors drave them out. 
Behooved them find some other way to rule. 
They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
Been cunning in dominion, among beasts 



A STOH y OF DOOM. 265 

To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 

Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice? 

What harm if coveting a race of men 

That could but serve, they sought jimong their thralls, 

Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 

Ay, and of feeble wiil and quiet mind ? 

Did they not spend much gear to gather out 

Sucli as I tell of, and for matching them 

One with another for a thousand years ? 

Wliat harm, then, if there came of it a race, 

Jnferior in their wits, and in their size, 

And well content to serve ? " 

" ' What barm ? ' tbou say est,. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm ?'" 

" Your pardon, sir 
I do remember that there came one day, 
Two of the grave old angels that God made, 
When first he iiivented life (right old they were 
And plain, and venerable) : and they said, 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, ' Ye do not well, you wives of men, 
To match your wit against the Maker's will, 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair image, which he set at first 
Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
To treat His likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

"Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair ? " 

" How know I?- 'Twas a slave that told it me. 
My mother was full old when I was born. 
And that was in her youth. What think you, sir? 
Did not the giants likewise ill ? " 

« To tba: 
I have no answer ready. If a man, 
Wtieii each one is against his fellow, rule, 



286 A STOR V OF DOOM. 

Or unmolested dwell, unreproved, 

Because for size and strength, be standeth firsv 

lie will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 

* I will to wife choose me a stately maid, 

And leave a goodly offspring ; ' 'sooth, I think, 

He sinneth not ; for good to him and his 

He would be strong and great. Thy jieople's fault 

Was, tliat for ill to others, they did plot 

To make them weak and small." ^ 

" But yet they steal 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and sucli 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 
They light among themselves for that same cause. 
And they are proud against the King of heaven : 
They hope in course of ages they shall come 
To be as strong as He." 

The Master said, 
" I will not heM' thee talk thereof ; my heart 
iS sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife 
I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, 
And bid tliat they prepare the sleei)ing place. 
O would that I might rest ! I fain would rest, 
And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
My never-heeded tale 1 " 

With that she called 
The moon was up, and some few stars were out, 
AVhile heavy at tlie heart he walked abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And yet 
Kiloiya pondered, "Shall my master go? 
And will my master go? What 'vaileth it, 
That he doth spend himself, over the waste 
A-wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, 
That mock his warning ? O, what 'vaileth it, 
That he doth lavish wealth tobuiid yon ark, 
AVhereat the daughters, when they cat with me, 
Laugh ? O my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled 
J^ not he happy ? Who, of all the eartU, 



A STO/iV 01 DOOM. m 

Oboyctli lilvo to ine? Ilavo not I Icarnccl 
From Iiis (If.ir iiioiuli to utter Kt'oinly woivls, 
And lay the povvcrs my iiuttlieruave mo by? 
][av(' I m-.uh: oir'i'i'ini;'*-'. to tlit'dragoii'? Nay. 
And 1 am faiiliful wlien he Icavcth mo 
Lonely Ix'twixl, tlio jd'akcd nioiiiitain tops 
Jiitliis lon<4' valhty, wlnrii no Nlran^^t-r foot 
Cm come wiilidiit my will. lie HJiall not i^o. 
Not yet, not yet ! I>ii(, three diiys — only three — 
Jieside me, and a mill teriiiii^ (jii the tliird, 
* I have heard the Voice nyiiin,' Be dull, O dull, 
JMind and rememhrance ! Mother, ye did ill ; 
"ri.sh;ii(l uulawlul knowled^-e not to uhc. 
Why, () dark niothei- ! openi'd ye the \\ay ?" 
\(\t will 11 he entered, and did lay aside 
His costly roI)(! of sacrili(u', — the rohe 
AVherein he had been oderiiiji^, ere the Rim 
\Vent down,— for^^etfid of lier niot]ier''H craft, 
She lovely and Huhniiss did mourn to him : 
"'I'liou wilt notjufo, — 1 pray thee do not jr,)^ 
Till thou hast seen thy (ihildren." And he said, 
" I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed ; 
To-niorrovv it is L,nven nie by the Voi(!e 
Upon a four-days' journey to proeee<], 
And follow down ihe river, till its waves 
Are swallowed in the saud, where no flesh dwells. 

"'There,' quotli tlie Unrevealed, ' w^e Khali meet, 

And I will counse-l thee ; and thou shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and \vi(h them 

8Ii(f bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn a|)poar8j 

Thou fairest amon<>- women, call thy slaves, 

And bid them yoke the steers, andspread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cunning liands ; 

Array thee in thy ricih apparel, <h'ck 

Thy locks with gold ; and while the liollow vale 

I thread beside yon river, go tliou forth 

Atween the mountains to my father's house, 

And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 

And take and lay an offering at bia feet. 



868 A STOR Y OP 1>00M. 

Then light, and cry to him, * Great king, the sen 

Of old Metlr.iselah, thy son liath Kt-nt 

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.'* 

" Sir," quoth the womui, " I will do this thing, 
So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 
]5ut will tlio Voice, think you, forbear to chide, 
Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet tiiee, 
And drive thee on *? " 

He saitli, *' Tt will keep faith. 
PVar not. I have prevailed, for 1 besought, 
And lovingly it answered. 1 shall I'est, 
And dwell with thee till after my three sons 
Come from the chase." She said, " I let tlieni forth 
In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
They lie in ambush, and will draw men on 
To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 

"Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
"To drive them down upon the growing corn 
Of (hem that were their foes ; for now, behold, 
They sufl'er while (he utnvieldy beas(s delay 
Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound 
The damp deep meadows, to a puljjy mash ; 
Or wallowing in (he wa((>rs fold them ; nay, 
'J'read down the banks, and let (hem fordi to flood 
Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
The walls, and (aint the wind, erelliirty men, 
Over the hairy terror piling stones 
Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
*' Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
1 would my sons were home ; but now so wvXi 
JVIethinks it is wi(h me. that I am fain 
To wish ihey might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
"With me till alter they relurn, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, ah me I 



T 

rn 



A STORY OF DOOM. 30 

i muAt sit joyless in my place ; bereft, 

As trees that suddenly liiive dro))ped their leaves 

And dark as nights that have no moon." s 

She spak' 
The hope o' the world did hearken, but rc])ly 
iMade none He left his hand on her fair locks 
As she lay sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night l)egan to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and tlie winged wind 
That went among the trees. The patient hand, 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, 
Until she said, "What wilt thou? Nay, 1 know. 
I therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
Thou loveM me well, and not for thine own will 
(Jonscntetit to depart. What more ? Ay, this ; 
r do avow that lie which calleth thee 
Hat It. ri(jhtto call ; and I do swear the Voice 
tShallhave no let of me to do Its wilU* 



BOOK IL 

Now ere the sunrise, wliile the morning star 
Hung yet behind the pine-bough, woke and prayed, 
The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
iJecause the Voice was favorable. Now 
IJcigaJi the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth 
The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate 
III peace togetlier ; then Niloiya forth 
l)c!iind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
And the great Master-builder, do\vn the coui'se 
Of the long river, on his errand sped. 
And as he went, he tliought : 

TTliey do not well 
^Vho, walking up a trodden path, all smooth 
With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight 



370 A STOR Y OF DOOM. 

From town to town, will scorn at them that wonu 

Under tlie covert of God's eldest trees 

^uch as He planted with His hand, and fed 

With dew before rain fell, till tliey stood close 

And awful ; drank the light up as it dropt, 

And kept the dusk of ages at their roots),— 

They do not well who mock at such, and cry, 

"We peaceably, without or fault or fear, 

proceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 

Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace, 

And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, 

After all reasoning, choose the worser course. 

And, plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 

Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 

Not worth their pains." Nor do they w^ell whose 

work 
Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, 
Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 
Of those who work for a world (no wages paid 
By a Master hid in light), and sent alone 
To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes 
Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 
To tell the harmless laborer, " Thou art mad."^ 

And as he went, he thought : "They counsel me. 

Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 

* Consider ; call thy sober thought to aid ; 

Why to but one man should a message come, 

And why, if but to one, to thee ? Art thou 

Above us, greater, wiser ? Had He sent 

He had willed that Ave should heed. Then since He 

knoweth 
That such as thou a wise man cannot heed. 
He did not send.' My answer, ' Great and wise. 
If He had sent with thunder, and a voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard ; bat so 
Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts, 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves,' 
They tell me, ' God is great above thy thought : 
He meddles not ; and thL^ small world is ours, 



A STORY OF DOOM. V\ 

ITiese many hundred years Ave govern it ; 

Old Adam, after Eden', sa^^ Him not.' 

Then 1, ' It may be He is gone to knead 

More clay. But look, my masters ; one of you, 

Goin^ to warfare, layeth up h-is gown, 

His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more 

Upon it, till young trees have waxen great ; 

At last, when he returneth, he will seek 

His own. And God, shall he nor do the like? 

And, having set new worlds a-rolling, come 

And say, " I will betake Me to the e'arth 

That I did make ; " and, having found it vile, 

Be sorry. Why should man bcTfree, you wise, 

And not the Master ? ' Then they answer, * Fool ! 

A man shall cast a stone into the air 

For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 

Will He come fingering of his ended work, 

Fright it with his approaching face, or snatoll 

One day the rolling wonder from its ring, 

And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 

Might take a nestling from its downy bed» 

And having satisfied a careless wish, 

Go thrust it back into its place again?' 

To such I answer, and, that doub"t once mine, 

I am assured that 1 do speak aright : 

* Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 

Lies in the reason of it; ye do grudge 

That these your lands should have another Lord ; 

Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 

Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked 

For countenance and favor when He came, 

Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, 

With cautious reasoning, de(>p and hard, to prove 

That He would never come, and w^ould your wrath 

Be hot against a prophet ? Nay, I wot 

That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 

** Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if He come,-* 

We think not that He will, — but if He come. 

Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, 

Because we look for praise," * " 



S7i A STOR Y OF DOOM. 

Now, as he weirt^ 
The noontide he.iis came on, and he g'ew faint ; 
But while he sal below an alniiig-tree, 
A slave a|>}»iT.aclu'(1 wiili sj^reetint::, " Master, hail I " 
11^' ansu'i'ic'd, " Hail I what wilt thou 1' " Then she 

said, 
"The |)alace oJ thy fatlicrs standeth nigh." 
'' I know it," rjiioth ho ; and E»he said again, 
'• riu' Kld(>r, learning tliou wouldst pass, hath sent 
To l\'tcli thee." Then he rupe and followed her., 
So lirsi they walkt'd beneath a lofiy roof 
l)f living hongh and tendril, woven on high 
To let no droj) of snnshine through, and hnng 
With gold and pnrph' fruitage, and the wliite 
Thick cuips of scented blossom. Underneath, 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and llofka 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up, 
I^'inning tlu'ir wings, to ajjitate and cool 
The noonday an-, as men with heed and pains 
Had tautrht them, marshalinjx and tamini; them 
To bear the wind in on their moving wings. 

So long time aa a nimble slave wonld spend 
In milking of her cow, they walked at ease ; 
Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, 
Brou'jht whole and set t(\gethei-, made. Therein 
H id ilwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons 
Had tinished H,, and up to Eden gate 
il m1 journeyed for to fetch him, " Here," they said, 
" Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he carai 
Under the doorplace, and the women sat. 
Each with her finger on her lips ; but he, 
TTwing been called, went on, until he reached 
The jeweled settle, wrought with cunning work 
l)f gold ami ivory, whereon they wont 
To «et the Klder. All with sleekeit skins, 
riiat striped and spotted creatures of the wood 



A STOiK / OF Doom. Xlt 

Had wl?'-", the seat was covorcd, 'it tliereoh 
'J'he Elaor was iiol : l»y the steps tlu'ivol, 
Upon the fli)or, whereto his silver beai-il 
1)1(1 leaeli, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
IFpon the settle many doves wei'e ))eivlied, 
That set the air a-^oini"- with their wings : 
These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood 
Ti» wail the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
"WillKe forget i.ie ? Would He might forget I 
Old, old ! The hope of old Methuselah 
Is all in His forgetfidnoss." With that, 
A s'.ave-^irl took a (Mip of wine, and crept 
Ariear him, saying, " Taste ; " and when his lips 
Had touelu'd it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, 
^ liehoid, 1 prophesy." 

Then straight they flecj 
That were about him, and did stand a[)art 
And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, 
Was plagued with that same fate to pr- -phesy. 
And s[)ake against himself, against his day 
And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
Therefore he, warning them what time the fit 
Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not, 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
Rea(Oi out of heaven His wonderfid right hand. 
Lo, lo ! Ho dip|)('d it in the uncpiiet sea, 
And in its curved palm behold the ark, 
As in a vast <!alm lake, came floating on. 
Ay. then, His other han<l — tlie cursing hand 
He took and spread between us and the sun, 
And all was black ; the day was blotted out, 
And horrible staggering took the frighted earth, 
1 heard the water hiss, and then methitdcs 
'J'he crack as of her splitting. Did she tako 
Tneir palaces that are my brothers dear. 
And huddle them wi h all their ancientry 
Under into her i>reast ? If it uas black. 
How could tint old mm sec V There was a noise 
I' the dark, aucL Ha drew back His hand again. 



/ 



St4 A STOR Y OF DOOM. 

T looked It was a dream, — let no man say 

It was aught else. There, so — tlie fit goes by. 
Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide? — 
, Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, 
Let the vulture lay his beak to ray green limbs. 
What! art Thou envious? — are the sons of mec 
Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will ? 
Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 
Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, 
And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled hands 
Pie claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 
Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — 
The secret of Thy youth ! O, envious God I 
We die. The words of old Methuselah 
And his prophecy are ended." 

Then the wives, 
Beholdinor how he trembled, and the maids 
And children, came anear, saying, " Who art thou 
That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it w^as thotx 
Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought 
The fit of prophecy." And he did turn 
To look upon them, and their majesty 
And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
And, being pure among the vile, he cast 
In his tho'aght a veil of snow-white purity 
Over the beauteous throng. " Tiiou dost not well," 
They said. He answered : " Blossoms o' the world, 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, 
Where in tlie youngest grass bhie tups push forth, 
And the white lily reareth up her head, 
And purples cluster, and the saffron flower. 
Clear as a flame of sacrifice, breaks out, 
And every cedar-bough, made delicate 
Witii climbing roses, dro])s in white and red,— 
Saw I (good angels keep you in their care) 
So beautiful a crowd." 

With that they stamped. 
Gnashed their white teeth, and, turning, fled and spat 



A STOJ^V OP DOOM. ?'* 

tTpon the floor. Tlie Elder spake to him, 
Yet shaking with the burden, " Who art thou ?" 
He answered : " I, the man whom thou didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodhmd, do forbear 
To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To thy house 1 spake, 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore didst thoU 

spite," 
Quoth he, " the daughters?" and it seemed he lost 
Count of that prophee}^ for very age. 
And from his thin lips dropt a trerablijig laugh. 
*' Wicked old man," quoth he, " this wise old man 
I see as 'twere not I. Thou bad old man, 
What sliall be done to thee ? for thou didst burn 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all about. 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay. 
Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings { 
They went to toll Him ; but they came no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
They grudged their little ones ; and yet no way 
There was bat tnat. 1 took it ; I did well." 

Wit'' "hat he fell to weeping. " Son," said he, 
" L^.jg have I hi<l mine eyat^ from stalwart men, 
li'or r . hard to lose the majesty 
And pride and power of manhood : but to-day. 
Stand '■ rth into the light, tliat I may look 
Upan thv strength, and thitdc, Even thus did I, 
In the glory of my youth, more like to god 
Than like His sgli'Irss, face the vassal world.' 

Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, 

Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal 

He wont to cut his way, when tangled in 

The matted haves. And down the opened roof 

Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, 

And streamed along his gown, and made to shine 

The jeweled sandals on his feet. 



27h A STOR Y OF DOOM. 

And, lo, 
TiiR Eider cried aloud : " I prophesy. 
Behold, my son is as a fruitful field 
When all the lands are waste. The archers drev, 
TLey drew the bow against him ; they were fain 
To alay : but he shall live, — my son shall live, 
A.nd I shall live by him in the otl:er days. 
Behold the prophet of the Most High God : 
Hear him. Behold the hope o' the woild, what time 
She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
A se(.'d alive, and sow the earth Avith man. 

earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell of wood 
Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty l^rds. 
^Vill this old man be in it ? Sir, and you, 

My daughters, hear him ! Lo, this white old man 
He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 
Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 
Ring with abhorred words ?) The prophecy 
Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, 
They both are ended." 

Then said Koah : « The lite 
Ot this ray lord is low for very age : 
Why, then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, 
Fa- her of Lamech, dost thou anger Him ? 
Tl'.ou canst not strive against Him now." He said ; 
' rhy feet nre toward tlie valley, where lie bones 
l^lvad i'g upon the desert. Did I love 
F'u' lithe strong lizards that T yoked and set 
''■1 firaw my cnr? and were tlu-y not possesst-d ? 
\ ,1, all of them were liars. 1 loved tli( m well, 
.\'');\t did the l-ncmy, but on a d;iy 
"iAhen I behind my talking team wen' forth, 

1 iiey sweetly lyiriT, f^<> that all m< ii praised 
rhf'ir Ihrtering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, 
What did ihe Enemy but seud His slaves, 
A.ngels, to east down stoness upon their heads 
And break them ? Nay, I could not stir abroad 
Hut havoc came ; they never crept or flew 
Eevond the shelter that 1 builded here. 



A STCRY OF DOOM. 377 

But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads 

Were marks for myrmidons iLat in the clouds 

Kept watcn to crush thtm. Can a man forgive 

That hath been warred on tlius ? 1 wiil not. Nay, 

I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah," 

The Master-shipwright, he replied, '' 'Tis tru.>, 

Great loss was that ; but they that stood thy fiiend'* 

The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues, 

And cursed the God uf heaven. What marvel, s^" 

If He was angered ?" But the Elder cried : 

" They all are dead, — the toward beasts 1 loved; 

My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 

Their hones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 

And I will keep my wrath foi-evermore 

Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 

Thou coward servant of a t\rant King, 

Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 

' My King, what bones are these? Methuselah, 

The white old man that sitteth on the ground, 

Sendeth a message, " Bid them that they live, 

And let my lizanls run up every path 

They wont to take when out of silver pipes, 

The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 

I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 

Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 

Submiss upon my threshold, poured away 

Music that welled by heartsfid out, and made 

The throals of men that heard to swell, their breasti 

To heave with the joy of grief ; yea, caused the lips 

To laugh of men asleep. 

Return to me 
The great wise lizards ; ay, and them that flew 
My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 
Again that midtitude ; and her- ' swear 
That they shall draw my car and me thereon 
Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 
My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 
Shalt yet have honor, O mine Enemy, 
By me. The speech of old Methuselah." "* 



278 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Thi'ii Noah made answer, " By the living God, 

'I'liat is no enemy to men, great sire, 

I will not take tby message ; hear thou Ilim. 

' Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold. 

The earth that I made gieen cries out to me. 

Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 

I am robbed, I am robbed (Ho saith); they sacrific« 

To evil demons of My blameless flocks, 

That I did fashion with my hand. Behold, 

How goodly was the world ! I gave it thee 

Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done? 

I will cry out to the waters, Cover it, 

And hide it from its Father. Lo^ Mine eyes 

Tnrnfroin ii shamed.'' " 

With that the old man laughed 
Fidl softly. "Ay," quoth he, " a goodly world. 
And we have done with it as we did list. 
Why did he give it us ? Nay, look you, son : 
Five score they were that died in yonder waste; 
And if He crieth, ' Keuent, be reconciled,* 
I answer, * Nay, my lizards ; ' and again, 
If He will trouble me in this min'e age, 
' Why hast Thou slain my lizards ? ' Now my speech 
Is cut away from all my other words, 
Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 
The mail of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, " My Master, hear it not ; 
But yet have paliciice ;" and he turned himself, 
And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, 
Atid in the light of evening made his way 
Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. 



BOOK IlL 

Above the head of great IMethuselah 
There lay two demons in the opened roof 
Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 



A STOJ? Y OF DOOM. 278 

Cor when the Elder prophesied, it came 
About, tliat hidden ihinga were shown to then 
And burdens that he S[)ake against his time. 

(But never heard them, such as dwelt wiihhim ; 
Tlieir ears they s!;o])ped, and willed to live at ease 
In all delight ; and iterrcct in their yontli, 
And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) 

Now these were, fettered that they could not fiy, 

For a certain disobedience they had wrought 

Against tlie rule^" of their host ; but not 

The less they loved their cause ; and when the feet 

O' the master-builder were no longer heard, 

They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 

Did follow, for the one to tlie other said, 

" Behooves our master know of this ; and ns, 

IShould he be favorable, he may loose 

From the-e our bonds." 

And thus it came to pa8g^ 
That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
CN.)ilcd in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch 
Pacing before it saw in middle air 
A boat that gleamed like fire, and on it came, 
And rocked as it drew near, and then it bui'st 
And went to pieces, and there fell thereform, 
Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 

Is'ow there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 

Of that deep cave, to testify of wi-ath. 

"^riie dragon had been wroth Avith some that served, 

yvnd chased them from him ; and his oracles, 

That wont to drop from hitn, where stopped, and mcf 

jMight only pray to him through that fell web 

That hung before him. Then did whisper low 

Some of the little spirits that, bat-like, clung 

y\nd cluster'd i-oiuid the opening. "Lo,"lhey said. 

While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 



280 A STOR V OF DOOM. 

" These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lia 
Red on the moss, and soar its dewy spires, 
Until our lord give leave to draw the wtb, 
And quicken reverence by his presence dread. 
For lie will know and call to them by name, 
And they will change. At present he is tick 
And wills that none disturb him." So they lay, 
And there was silence, for the foref't tribes 
Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
That stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky 
And made the moonlight sickly. 

Now, the cave 
Was marvelous for beauty, wrought with tools 
Into the living rock, for there had worked 
All cunning men, to cut on it with signs 
And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough 
Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled; 
And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal satj 
Who from his harp delivered music sweet 
As any in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
Earth's laiost wonder on the walls appeared, 
Unflnished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock hewn out, 
Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
Had fashioned ; many golden lamps they held 
By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
All tended in a reverent quietude 
Toward the couch whci'eon the dragon lay. 
The floor was beaten gold ; the curly lengths 
Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight 
AVith a covei'let made stiff with crusting gems. 
Fire-opals shooting, rubies, fierce blight eyes 
Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald. 
That changed their luster wben he breathed- 



A STOk y OP DOOM. S81 

His head, 
Feathered witli crimson combs, and all his neck, 
And half-shut fans of his admii-ed wii.gs, 
That in their t-caly splendor |>ut to shame 
Or gold or stone, lay on his ivoiy coticli 
And HJiivered ; for I'le dragon suffered pain : 
He suffered and he feared. It was liis doom, 
The tempter, tliat he never should de])art 
Kiom the briglit creature that in Paiadise 
He for his evil purpose erst possessed, 
Until it died. Thus only, spirit of migho 
And chiefest spirit of ill, couid he be free. 

But with its nature vi^ed, as souls of men 
Are wedded to their clay, he tot>k the dread 
Of death and dying, an<l the coward heart 
Of the beast, and cavern terrors of the end 
Hank him that habited within it to dread 
l)isu!ii()n. He, a d irk dominion erst 
Rebellious, Jay and trembled, for the flesh 
Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent 
'I'lieir (!hief musicians for to comfort him. 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine. 
And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, 
And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
Laid daily ; for they said, "This mighty one, 
All the world wonders ai'ter him. He lieth 
Sick in ins dwelli:ig ; he hath long foregone 
(To do us good) domi.iion, and a throne, 
And his I»rave warfare with the Enemy, 
iSo much he pitieth us tliat were denied 
The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now 
Shall he be certified of gratitude. 
And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 

'V\\Q night was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous winga 



582 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Fho dragoi. liiittered, cursed awhile, tlieii turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, "I thirst, 
(xive me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, 
l^'rom inner eliambers, lovely niinistrants, 
Young boys, with radiant locks and })eaceful eyes. 
And poured out li(}uor from their cups to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh 
In jeweled basins sparkling ; and he la]>ped, 
Awd was appeased, and said, "I will not hide 
Longer my much desired face from men. 
Draw l)a<-k the .veb of separation." Then 
With cries of gratulation ran they forth, 
And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, 
Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, 
Those red mre moons, and let his sei'peiit eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be these '? '* 
Inquiring : and the little spirits said, 
" As we fov thy protection (having heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night, 
Snch as do oft ill-use us) clustered here, 
We marked a boat afire, that sailed the skies, 
And furrovt'ed up like spray a billowy cloud, 
/\nd, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." 
Chen said the dragon, *' Let, my guard, and you. 
Attendant hosts, recede ; " and they went back. 
And formed about the cave a widening ring, 
Then, halting, stood afar ; and from the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, Avith hissing tongue, 
" If he were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and fcrtft 
Started black angels, trampling hard to free 
Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. 

And he said. " Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Your lord I am : draw nigh." " Thou art our lord," 

They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 



A STORY OF DOOM. 881 

Tliey bent, anc! made obeisance. Furtbermore, 

" O tiery flying serpent, after whom 

Tlie nations go, let thy dominion last," 

They said, " forever." And the serpent said, 

" It shall : unfold your errand." They replied. 

One speaking for a space, and afterward 

His fellow taking up the word with fear, 

And panting^, " We were set to watch the mouta 

Of great Methuselah. There came to him 

The son uf Lamech two days since." " My lord, 

They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 

Unwitting, of the flood of waters, — ay, 

A vision was before him, and the lands 

Lay under water drowned. He sa.r the ark, — 

It floated in the Enemy's righ hi*nd. ' 

" Lord of the lost, the son of Lame h fled 

Into the wilderness to meet His v ice 

That reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 

Aught that might serve thee, f Uowed, but, forbid 

To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff. 

And wished for morning." 

" When the dawn was red 
We sought the man, we marked him ; and he 

prayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and be said — " 
" Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare me, what devout 
He fawning groveled to the All-powerful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, 
Speak that." They answered, " He did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more. 
We are certified by all his scattered words. 
That He will take^from men their length of days, 
And cut them off like grass in its first flower : 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he beard, 
The dragon made to the night bis moan. 

" And more," 
They s^idj " that He a.bove would have men know 



B8« A STOR V OF DOOM. 

That He doth love them, whoso will repent, 
To that nian Wa is favoralde, yea, 
Will be liis loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. O man, thy heart 
Is -^tout against His wrath. But will IJe love? 
I heard it rumored in the heavens of old 
(And loth He love ?). Thou wilt not, canst not, stand 
A< ainst tlie love of God. Dominion fails ; 
I see it float from mo, that long liave worn 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God ! 
I cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
They answc-vd, "Be not moved, admired chief 
And trusted of mankiu'^ ; ■" and ihcy went on. 
And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 



He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Propheiic cowering. As a braising blow. 
It fell upon his head and daunted him, 
Until they ended, saying, "Prince, behold, 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." 



But prone 



Thereon 



He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. 

Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Receive your wages." So their fetters fell ; 

And they, retiring, lauded him, and ciied, 

*' King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." 

And he, — l)ein<j left alone, — he said : "A light ! 
see a light, — a star among the trees, — 
\n angel. " And it Irew toward the cave, 
But wiih its sacre<l feet touched not the grass, 
Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes. 
But hung a span's length from that ground pollate, 
At the opening of the cave. 



And when he !o<)ke<i, 
I'he dragon cried, "TIiou newly-fashioned ihiiig, 
Of name unknown, tliy scoiii becomes thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suii'er what thine eyes 
Thou countest all too clean to open on ? " 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 
Of holy heaven was on the drooj)iiig lids ; 
And not as one that answereth, it let fall 
The music from its mouth, hut like to one 
That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. 

"A message : *I have heard thee, while remote 
I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' 
A message : ' I have left thee to thy ways, 
And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 
I have made to serve the ends of My groat love. 
Hereafter will I chain thee down. 'J'o-day 
One thing thou art forbidden ; now thou knowesi 
The name thereof : I told it thee in heaven, 
Wlien thou wert sitting at My feet. T'orbeai 
To let that liidden thing be whispered forth : 
For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was. 
That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, 
And not believe it, adding so fresh weight 
Of condemnation to the doomed world. 
Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak ; 
Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue 
A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown. 
Unknowable, unbearable to thought. 
But sweeter in the hearing than all harps 
Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears 
Are opened, knuw it, and discern and fear^ 
Forbearing speech of it for evermore." 

So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy. 
As one released, went up ; and it was dawn. 
And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
Came the red sun and looked into the cave. 

But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, 
From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends,— 



S86 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Three wliora he trusted councillors accursed. 

A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the |)lac« 

In its hlack swirls, and out of it they rushed, 

And hid them in recesses of the cave, 

Because they could not look upon (he M.n, 

dith light is pure. An<l iSatan called to tl:eni, — 

All in the dark, in his great rage he spake : 

" Up," quoth th^ dragon ; "it is time to work, 

Or we are all und ne. ' And he did hiss. 

And there came shudderings overhuid and tiees, 

A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out 

A blinding fog, that crept toward the caA-e, 

And rolled up blank before it like a veil, — 

A curtain to conceal its habiters. 

Then did those s|)irits move upon the floor, 

Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes nglow 

One had a helm for covering of the scars 

That seamed what rested of a goodly face ; 

He worn iiis visor up, and all his words 

Were hollower than an echo from the hills : 

He was hight Make. And lo, his fellow-fiend 

Came after, holding dow)) his dastard head, 

Like one ashamed : now this for craft Mas great ; 

The dragon honored him. A third sat down 

Among them, covering Avith his wasted hand 

Somewhat that pained his breast. 

And when the fit 
Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind, 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with Avratli and rage, 
And toid them of his matters : " Look to this, 
If ye be loyal ;" adding, "Give your thoughts, 
And let me have your coansel in this need." 

One spirit rose and S])ake, and all the cave 

Was full of sighs, "The words of Make the Prince, 

Of him once delegate in Bctelgeux : 

Vt^hereas of late the manner is to change, 

We know not where 'twill end ; and now ray words 

Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie stili 



A STOR y OP DOOM. 287 

And strive not, else the world that we have won 
He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. 

" For while I stood in mine obedience yet, 

Stoei ing of Betolgeux my sun, behold, 

A moon, tliat evil ones did iill, rolled up 

Astray, and suddenly the Master came, 

And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, 

lie took and broke it, flung it here and there, 

And called a blast to drive the powder forth ; 

And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies 

Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun. 

Spirits that passed upon their work that day, 

Cried out, * How dusty 'tis.' Behooves us, then, 

That we depart, as leaving unto Him. 

This goodly world and goodly race of men. 

Not all are doomed : hereafter it inaybe 

That we find place on it again. But if 

Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 

Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come, 

And, choosing rather to undo His work 

Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 

He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 

In impotent rage, "Depart! and I ow depart^ 

Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 

Or I, most miserable, hold my life 

Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 

The buflfetings of yonder shoreless sea? 

O death, thou terrible doom : O death, thou dread 

Of all that breathe." 

A spirit rose and spake 
" Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear ; 
For this admired country we have marred. 
Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days 
When yet I can recall what love was like), 
Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole. 
And clogged with strong conditions : ' O, repent, 
Man, and I turn.' He, therefore, powerful now. 
And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, 
Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." 



288 A STOk Y OF DOOM. 

The dragon said, " I tremble, 1 am sick." 

i\e said with pain of heart, " How am I fallen ^ 

For I keep silence ; yea, I have withdrawn 

Froni haunting of His gates, and shouting up 

Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out 

From this small world, this little one, that I 

Have been content to take unto m^'selF, 

1 here being loved and worshiped ? He knowetJ' 

How much I have foregone ; and must He stoop 

!"'• whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep 

Of purpose to pursue me from my place? 

And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 

Tlieir length of days whereby they perfect it f 

So shall He scatter all that I have stored, 

And get them by degrading them. I know 

That in the end it is appointed me 

To fade. 1 will not. fade before the time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spii'it ashamed 

And subtle, and his face he turned aside : 

" Whereas," said he, " we strive against both powe/ 

And love, behooves us that we strive aright. 

Now some of old my comrades yesterda}^, 

I met, as they did journey to appear 

In the Presence ; and 1 said, 'My master lieth 

Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree 

There stands against it) he would also come 

And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 

They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord 

'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet ; 

And what doth hinder ? Nothing but this brcall 

Were it not well to make an end, and die. 

And gain admittance to the King of Kings? 

What if thy slaves by thy consent should take 

And bear thee on their wings above the earth, 

And suddenly let fall, — how soon 'twere o'er I 

We should have fear and sinking at the hearit : 

But m a little moment we should see. 

Rising majest'C from a ruined heap. 

The stately spirit that we served of yore." 



A STORY 0I< DOOM. 28f 

The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes 
Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and, f<ick with shame^ 
It bowed Itself together, and went back 
With hidden face. " This counsel is not good," 
Th:^ other twain made answer ; *' look, my lord» 
Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours 
'Tis evil also ; speak, for we perceive 
That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, 
Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, 
That long for them." And Satan, flattered thuf 
(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed 
Wi^h soft, sweet words, and music deftly played 
Replied, ♦ Whereas I surely rule the world, 
Behooves that ye prepare for me a path. 
And that I, patting of my pains aside. 
Go stir rebellion in the mighty bearts 
O' the giants ; for He loveth'^them, and looka 
Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 
He willeth that they yield, that He may spare ; 
But, by the blackness of my loathed den, 
I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 
Go, therefore, take to yon some harmless guise, 
And spread a rumor that I come, I, sick, 
Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have board 
Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware, 
I caught them up, and sith they bode men hariE 
I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more. 
To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 
The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 
Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, 
Lest the curse falleth, and she bruise my head. 
Friends, if it be their mind to send for me 
An army, and triumphant draw me on 
In the golden car you wot of, and with shouts, 
I Avould not that ye hinder them. Ah, then 
Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him son 
■ That loves tnem, O, by much too well to wet 
Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strengri 
Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, 
While He doth reason vainly with them, I 



890 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Will offer Him a pact : * Great King, a pact, 
And men shall Avorsbip Thee, 1 say ihey shallc 
For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 
To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name 
"Wilt suffer to be worshiped after Thine.' '* 

"Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, "do this thiii| 
A.nd let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 

Then he made answer, " By a messenger 

Have I this day been warned. There is a deed 

I may not tell of, least the people add 

Scorn of a Coming Greatness to their faults. 

Why this? Who careth, when about to slay, 

And slay indeed, how well they have deserved 

Death whom heslayeth? Therefore yet is hid 

A meaning of some mercy that will rob 

The nether world. Now look to it, — 'Twere vaiD. 

Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, 

That we expect the harvest ; He would yet 

Be the Master-reaper ; for I heard it said. 

Them iliat be young and know Him not, and then 

That are bound and may not build, yea, more, theii 

wives, 
Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keej 
Joyous behind the curtains, every one 
With maidens nourished in the house, and babes 
And children at her knees —(tlien what remain II 
He claimeth and will gather for His own. 
Now, therefore, it were good by guile to worii, 
I'rinces, arid suffer not the doom to fall. 
There is no evil like to love. I heard 
Him whisper it. Have I ])Ui on this ficsh 
To ruin His two children beautiful. 
And shall my deed confound me in the eu^ 
Through awful imitation ? Love of God, 
? cry against thee \ thou art worst of &iL"* 



a STORY OF DOOM. 



Mooa: rr. 



Now while those evil ones took counsel strang«, 
The son of Laii.ech journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
A coin])any came down, and struck the track 
As ho did enter it. There rode in front 
Two horsemen, young andnoble, and behind 
Were following sliveg with tent gear ; others led 
Strong horses, othcfrs bare the instruments 
O' the chase, and ia the rear dull camels lagged, 
Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy vale. 

And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, 
And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes ; 
He in his regal grandeur walked alone, 
And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
Was gi'ave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
" Fair sirs, whose aieye ?" They made answer cold 
"The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, 
Niloiya, bare us to great Lamech'sson." 
And he, replying, " I am he." They said, 
" We know it, sii*. We have remembered you 
Through many seasons. Pray you let us not ; 
We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
Obeisance and passed on ; then all their tram. 
Which while they spoke had halted, moved apaoe^ 
And, while the silent father stood, went by, 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
That (seemed to say, " Father, aV' e own you not, 
We love you not, for you have left us long, — 
So lorg, we care not that you come again." 

And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 
To him that led the last, " There are but two 
Of these my sons ; but Avhere doth Jnphet ride? 
For I would see him." And the leader said, 
" Si'", ye shall find him, if ye follow up 



8t9 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Along the track. Afore the noonday meal 

The young men, even our masterj, bathed ; (there 

grows 
A clurap of cedars by the bend of yon 
Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat, 
Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. 
There, with a company of slaves and some 
Few camels, ye shall find him." 

And the mi 
The father of these three, did let him pass, 
And straggle and give battle to Ins heart, 
Standing as motionless as pillar set 
To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 
But all his istrength went from him, and he strove 
Vainly to trample out and trample down 
The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 
(Jnutterable love 6ung in his face. 
Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried 
Against liis lot : "I have lost my own, and won 
None other ; no, not one ! Alas, my sous I 
That I have looke 1 to for my solacing, 
In the bitterness to come. My children dear 1 " 
Aud when from his own lips he heard those wordjs^ 
With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 

And none came near to comfort him. His face 

Was on the ground ; but having wept, he rose 

Full hastily, and urged his way to find 

Tlie river ; and in hollow of his hand 

Raised up the water to his brow: "This son, 

This other son of mine," he said, "shall see 

No tears upon my face." And he looked on, 

Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves 

Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 

Where they had spread out webs of broidery wor 

LTnder a cedar-troe ; and he came on. 

And when they made obeisance ne declared 

His name, and said, "1 will beside ni}'^ son 

■^it till he '^akeneth." So Japhet lay 



A STOR Y OF DOOM. 898 

A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. 

He said, " This cannot scorn me yet ; " and pauseo 

Right angry with himself, because the youth. 

Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 

Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth, 

That was full sweet and pure ; and as he looked 

He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 

^- And is this mine ? " said he, *' ray son I my own ? 

(God, thou art good !) O, if this turn away, 

That pang shall be past bearing. Imust think 

That all the sweetness of his goodly face 

Is copied from his soul. How beautiful 

Are children to their fathers I Son, my heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; my life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the daya 

To come. If I forget the joy of youth, 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than my own again.** 

And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 

Murmured a little, turned himself, and woke. 

He woke, and opened on his father's face 

The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 

The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed; 

He was not ready, for he feared to see 

This mouth curled up with scorn. And Japhet spoke, 

Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 

" Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, 

What is your name ? " and even with his words 

His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, 

" Why art thou sad ?' What have 1 done to thee ? " 

And Japhet answered, " O, methought I fled 

In the wilderness before a maddened beast, 

And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 

You were my father ; but I fear me, sir, 

My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, 

" Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, 

(tod 1 if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 

Bless him with both Thy hauds j" and laid his OWB 

Oa Japhet's head. 



^ A STOk V OP DOOM. 

Then Japhet looked on h.ns. 
Made quiet by content, and answered low, 
"With faltering laughter, glad and reverent : " Sir 
You are my father ? " Ay," quoth he, " I am \ 
Kiss me, my son ; and let rae hear my name, 
My much desired name, from your dear lips." 

Then after, rested, they betook them home : 

And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 

" I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 

But now I feel as if I had always known 

And loved him well ; truly, I see not why. 

But I would rather serve him than go free 

W"th my two brethren." And he said to him, 

*' Father ! " — who answered, " I am here, my eon * 

And Japhet said, "I pray you, sir, attend 

To this my answer : let me go Avith you. 

For, now I think on it, I do not love 

The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet 

The arrows ani the bow ; but rather you, 

For all you do and say, and you yourself, 

Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. 

I pray you, sir, when you go forth again, 

That I may also go." And he replied, 

*' I will tell thy speech unto the Highest ; He 

Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee 

Now of the days to come. Know thou, most deai 

To this thy father, that the drenched world, 

When risen clean washed from water, shall receive . 

From thee her lordliest governors, from thee 

Daughters of noblest souL" 



'£3' 



So Japhet said, 
*' Sir, 1 am young, but of my mother straight 
I will go ask a wife, that this may be. 
I pray you, therefore, as the manner is 
Of fathers, give me land that I may reap 
Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise 
The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, 
" Dost thou forget ^ or dost thou not believe 



A STOB ^ OF DOOM. M 

Mv S'^n ? " He answerer!, ** I did ne'er beiiev^ 

My father, ere to-day ; but now, metliinks, 

Whatever thou believest I believe. 

For thy helov^il sake. If tliis then be 

As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth dotb bear 

The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 

'I'he latest of Iier grapes ; yet hear me, sir, 

None of tlie daughters shall be given to me 

If I be landless." Then his father said, 

" Lift up thine eyes towards the north, my son :* 

And so he did. " ISehold thy heritage ! " 

Quoth the world's prince and master, " far away 

Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 

Lies every season through, and where the dews 

Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign ; 

I part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 

The Highest gave it me : I make it theirs. 

Moreover, for thy maniage gift, behold 

The cedars where thou sleepedst ! There are vines • 

And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 

(For all, alas I is mine), — I give thee both 

For dowry, and my blessing." 

And be said, 
" Sir^ yon are good, and tberefore the Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, 1 love you welL** 



BOOK V. 

And when two days were over, .Taphet said, 

" Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." 

The mother answered, " Dost thou mock me, son T 

'Tis not tlie manner of our kin to wed 

So young. Thou knowestit ; art thou not ashamed 1 

Thou earest not for a wife." And the youth blushed 

And made for answer : " This, my father, saith 

The doom is nigh ; now, therefore, find a maid. 

Or else shall 1 be wifehss all my days. 



696 A STOR V £>/" IfOOAt. 

And as for me. I caio not ; but the lands 

Arc parted, ai)d tlio goodliest share is mine. 

And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 

Are with tliee in tlie house. Tlien why not mine ? 

Didst thou not diligently search for these 

Amonjr the noblest born of all the earlli, 

And bring tluin up ? JNIy sisters, dwell they not 

With women that bespeak them for tlieir sons? 

Now, tlierefore, let a wife be found for me, 

Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 

As tliou art to my fatlier'w." Wlien she heard, 

Niloiya sighed, and answered, " It is well.'* 

And Japhet went out from her presence. 

Then 
Quoth the great Master : " Wherefore sought ye not. 
Woman, these many days, nor tired at all. 
Till ye had fouml, a maiden for my son ? 
In this yo have (h)nc ill." Niloiya said : 
♦* Let not my loinl bo angry. All my soul 
Is sad : my lord hath walked afar sc long, 
That some despise thee ; yea, our servants fail 
T/atciy to bring tlieir stint of corn and wood. 
And. sir, thy household slaves do steal away 
To thy great father, and our lands lie waste, — 
>JonpViil them ; therefore thiidc the women scorn 
To give me — whatsoever gems I send. 
And goodly rainuMit (yea, 1 seek afar, 
And sue with all d«'sire and humbleness 
Through every master's house, but no one gives^ — 
A daughter lor my son." With that she ceased. 

Then said the Master : " Some thou hast with thee, 
Brought up auu)ug thy children, dutiful 
And fair ; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 
Children of them whom ho brought captive forth 
From their own herita ve." And she replied. 
Right si-ornfully : " IShall Japliet wed a slave?" 
Tlu'U said the IMaster : "lie shall wed : look thou 
To that. 1 say not he shail wed a slave ; 



^ STOT^ Y OF DOOM. 897 

But, by the niltjjht of One that made liim min6» 

I will not; (jiiil; iIhh! for my (IoomumI vv.iy 

Until thou wilt bctioili hiui. TlierclVirc, haHte, 

Heautiiul woman, lovetl of mo and mine, 

To brin^; a maiden, and to say, ' lU'Iiold 

A wife for Japliet.'" Then she answered, "Sir, 

It shall bo done." 

And foilh Niloiya sped. 
Sho gathered all lier jewels, — uU hIio held 
Of costly or of lic^li, — and went and s]iake 
With some few slaves that yet abodi- with her, 
For daily they were fi'wer ; and wenl forth, 
"With fair antl ilatterin<^ words, among her feres, 
And fain had wrought with them : and she had hope 
That, made her sicrk, it was so faint ; and then 
She had fear, and after she had certainty. 
For ail did scorn her. "Nay," they cried, " O f ooD 
If this be so, and on a watery world 
Ye thitdc to rocdv, what matters if a wife 
Be free or bond 'i Tiiero shall be nono to rule, 
If she have freedom : if she have it not, 
None shall there be to serve." 

And she alit, 
The time bcinj]^ done, desponding at her door. 
And went beliind a screen, vvhero should have 

wrou<ifht 
The daughters of the captives ; hut there wrought 
One only, and this rose from off the lloor, 
Where siie the river rush full deftly wove, 
And made obeisance. 'I'hcn Niloiya said, 
" Wliere are thy fellows?" And the maid replied, 
"Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, 
IJe angry ; they are Hed since yester-night." 
'J'luMi said Nil(.)iya, " Amarant, my slave. 
When have I called thee by thy name before?" 
She answered, " Lady, never ; " and she took 
And spread her broidcred robe before her faoe. 
Niloiya spoke thus : " I aux come to woe, 
And thou to honor." Saying this sue wep^ 



/i STOR Y OF DOOM. 

Passionate tears ; and all tlie damsel's soul 

Was lull of yt'uniing wonder, and her robe 

Slipped from iier hand, and her right innocent face 

Was se^n betwixt iier locks of tawny hair 

Tliat di'opped about her knees, and Iier two eyes, 

Bhie as the much-loved tlowerthat rims the beck. 

Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 

No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh, 

And kiieek'd and sai<l, " Will this my lady speak? 

Her damsel is desirous of her words." 

IMien said Niloiya, "I, thy mistress, sought 

A wife for Ja|)liet, and no wife is found." 

A\u\ yet again siio wept with grief of heart. 

Saying. ■" Ah me, miserable ! I must give 

A wife, — the Master willeth it, — a wife, 

Ah me ! unlo the high-born. He will scorn 

His motiier and reproach rae. I must give — 

None else have I to give — a slave — even thee.** 

Tills further spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 

Had rue on thee, a tender suckling child, 

When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast j 

J fed thee, gave the shelter, and I taught 

Tliy hands all cunning arts that women prize. 

But out on me 1 my good is turned to ill. 

Japhet, well beloved ! " And she rose up. 

And did restrain herself, saying, " Dost thou heed ? 
Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed,. 
*'Lady, 1 do." Then went Niloiya forth. 

And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, 
*' Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth ? 
And wdl he sometimes take them from my arina^ 
And almost care for me for their sweet sake? 

1 have notdai'cd to think I loved him, — now 
I know it W( 11 : but O, the bitterness 

For him I " And ending thus, the damsel rose^ 
For Japhet entered. And she bowed hei'self 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
Ran cold about her lieart, for all his fau© 
Was colorad with his passion. 



A STOR V OF DOOM. 209 

Japlict spoke ; 
He said, " My father's slave ; " and she replied, 
Low drooping t.er fair head, *' My master's son." 

And after that a silence fell on them, 

With trembling at iier heart, and rage at his. 

And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 

And could n jt speak. 0, cruel seemed his fate, 

So cruel he that tohl it, so unkind. 

His breast was full of wounded love and wrath 

Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 

Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 

The insult home tliat she had offered him, 

Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him, and he cried in ])ain, 
" Go, get thee forth ; " but she, all white and still, 
Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up pa'^sionate. 
With lifted arm as one about to str.Ae r 
But she cried out and met him, and she held 
With des|)erate miglit his hand, and ]nayed to him, 
" Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
' Japhet is like to us.'" And he sliook off 
Tlie damsel, and he said, *' 1 thank thee, slave ; 
For never have I stricken vet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad. 
Nay, but for mine. Got hence. Obey my words 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and we])t. 

And no more he restrained himself, but cried. 

With heavings of the heart, " O hateful day I 

O day that shuts the door upon delight ! 

A slave ! to wed a slave ! O loathed wife, 

Hated of Japhet's soul." A:vl after, long. 

With face between his hands, he saf, his thoughts 

Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 

"1 wilt not take her, I will d'e unwed, 

Tt is but that ; " lift up his .^yes and saw 

The slave, and she was sitting at his feet : 



806 A STOKV op doom. 

And he, so greatly wondering that she dared 
The disobedience, looked lier in the lace 
Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 
/ ■* lily yet ui.. smiled on by the sun ; 
And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, 
" Low am 1 fallen indeed. Hast tliou no fear, 
'J'liat thou dost flout me ?" but she gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
« Mo." 



And he wondered, and he loolied again, 
For in her heart there was a new-born pang, 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with their young, 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
" What is it ? I will call her by her name, 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to wife, 
She falls back fiom the freedom she had hoped.** 
Then he said, " Amarant ;" and the damsel drew 
Tier eyes d"wn slowly from the shaded sky 
Of even, and she said, " JMy master's son, 
Jajihet ; " and Japhet said, " I am not wroth 
With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed. 
Because she shamed me." 



And the maiden said, 
'* Doth not thy father love th.ee well, sweet sir?" 
■■* Ay," quoth he, " well." She answered, "Let th« 

heart 
t)f Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
/Vnd say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose 
Bits by her in the house ; but as for me, 
Bire, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outland country. Also, sir, 
My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe 
Of her betrothal ;' now, then, sith he loves, 
He will uot say thee nay. Herein for awhile 



A SrOJ^V OF DOOM. 8<^ 

Is respite, and thy raotlier far aiul near 
Will seek again : it may be she will find 
A fair, free maiden." 

Japhet said, " O maid. 
S'A-pet are thy words ; but what if 1 return, 
And all again be as it is to-d:;y ? " 
Then Amarant answered," Some have died in youth: 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had died,— 
Silenffor any words I might have said ; 
Emptv, for any space I might have hlled. 
Sir, I "will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will 1 bide ^ 
And serve." IK- answered, " O, thy speech is good; 
Now, therefore (since my mother gave me thee), 
I will reward it ; 1 will find for thee 
A goodly husband, and will make him free : 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet, 
And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him 
The passion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
With catching of the breath to her lair throat. 
And stood in her defiance lost to fear. 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
But short fv, " I remember," quoth she, low 
With raining down of tears and broken sighs, 
» That I am Japhet's slave ; beseech you, sir. 
As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 
Of language to me, be not harder now. ^ 
Sir, I was yours to take ; 1 knew not, sir, ^ 
That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir. 
Be pitiful,— be merciful to me, 
A slave." He said, « I thought to do thee good, 
For (road hath been thy counsel ; '[ but she cried, 
*' Good master, be you therefore pitiful 
To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered mucH 
4.t her, aad at her beauty, ^w ^« <^^"2^t» 



802 A SrOJ? V OF DOOM. 

" Noiio of tlio daughters aro so fair as this. 
Nor stand \vitl» Kucii a graco inajcstical ; 
She in licr lorUs is like llio travolintj^ snn, 
Si'ttinjjf, all clad in coiling donds oi' <j,()ld. 
And would t*ho die nnniatched V '* llo said to her, 
" Wiiat I wilt thou sail aloiu- in yonder ship, 
And dwell alono lu-riaftc'r V " "Ay," sho said, 
*' And servo my misti'esB." 

« It is well," quotii he^ 
And hold his liand to her, as is the way 
or niasU'rs. 'IMion she kissed it, and she said, 
"'rU;inks fur benevolence," and turned herself, 
Adding, " 1 rest, sir, on your gracious words ;'* 
Then s(e])[)ed into tho twilight and Avas gone. 

And Jajdiet, h.aving found liis falher, said, 

** Sir, let mo also journey when ye go." 

"Who answered, " Ualh thy inol her done her part?" 

lie siiid, " W-a, truly, and my damsel sits 

Before her in tho house : and also, sir. 

She said (d n\e, * I have not woiked, as yet. 

The garment of betrothal.' " And he snid, 

" ''J'is not tho manner of our kin to speak 

Concerning nuitters that a woman rules ; 

]5ut hath thy mother brought a damsel home. 

And let her see thy face, then all is ono 

As ye were v;ed." lie answered, "Even so. 

It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir: 

The ihimsel being juine, 1 am content 

To let her do according to her will ; 

And when we shall return, so surely, sir, 

As I sIimII find her by my mother's side. 

Then will 1 take her ; " and ho K f t to s{)eak ; 

His father answering, " Son, thy words aro good.* 



BOOK VL 

NiaHT. Now a tent w.as pitched, and Janhet sat 
1b tho door and watched, foi* on a litter lay 



T 



A STOJ! y OF DOOM. 808 

Tho fatlier of his love. Atul lio was sick 
To (Icalli ; but daily he would rouse Iiiiu up, 
Ami Htare \\[n)n llu* li.ij;ht, and I'vor say, 
" On, let. us journey ; " i)ul it c:mu\ to |»asn 
That night, across their path a river ran, 
And they who served the lather and the son 
ll;id pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
A lire to scare away the savaijjery 
That roamed in that great forest, for their way 
Had led aiuoug the trees of God. 

Tlio moot 
Shone on the river, like a silver road 
To lead them over ; but when Jaj)het looked, 
He said, " Wo shall not cross it. Islia-ll lay 
This well-beloved hea<l low in tlie leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time to time, 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy ilow 
With curling undulations, and would lay 
Their heads along the banks, and, subtle-oycd, 
(^ou-iid(!r those long spirting llames, that danced, 
WiuMi some red log would break and crumble down 
And show his dark des[)ondent eyes, that watched. 
Wearily, even Japhet's. I Jut he cared 
Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 
But dimness of <u)nrused incertitude, 
Would move anear all silent 1\, and gaze ^ 
Ai\d breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing 
With eyes ; ami still In; cared not,, a,iul tlu^ form 
Would falter, then recede, and melt agabi 
Into the farther shade. And .Japhet said : 
" How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven 
After her (-aving twice, sinci; we did leave 
'I'ho threshold of our honm ; and now wlial^ 'vailfl 
"hat far on tiimblid mountain snow we toiled, 
Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 
Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, 
To look, while every cone smoked, and there rac 
Hed brooks adown, that licked the forest up. 
While h\ the pale white ashes wading on 



804 A STORY OF DOOM. 

We saw no stars ? — wbat 'vails if af terwart^. 
Astonished with great silence, we did move 
Ovei" the measureless, nnknown desert mead ; 
While all the day, in rents and crevices, 
Would lie the lizard and tlie serpent kind, 
Drowsy ; and in the night take fearsome shapes, 
And ofttiraes woman-faced and woman-haired 
Would trail their snaky lengtli,and curse and mourn 
Or there would wander up, when we were tired. 
Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, 
Withstanding us, and staring; — O, what 'vails 
That in the dread deep forest we have fought 
AVith following packs of wolves? These men of 

miglit, 
Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
My father came to tell them of. Ah me I 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
(For he is stricken with a sore disease) 
Helpless outside their city ? " 

Then he rose^ 
And put aside the curtains of the tent, 
To look upon his father's face ; and lo ! 
The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not ; but only marked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power. 
His father lay. Then he came forth again, 
Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, 
And murmured, "Now it is the second time : 
An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw). 
Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 
I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught, 
But only knew that it was there : the same 
W^hich walked beside us once when he did pray." 
And Japhet hid his face between his hands 
For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 
Of watching ; and lie slumbered not, but mourned 
To himself, a little moment, as it seemed. 
For sake of his loved father j then he lift 



A STORY OF DOOM. 806 

flis eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 
The moon witblieM her silver, and she hung 
Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played 
' liy niglit on iim, dusk tre-s, and on the flood, 
Crer.t°red among the logs, and all the world 
And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 
Were gone, and golden sliafts came up, and touched 
The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 
Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 
Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw, 
Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace. 
And the'sacredness of morn, the battlements 
And outposts of the giants ; and there ran 
On the other side of the river, as it were, 
White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, 
And towers below a line of inland chff : 
These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. 

In valleys and the forest, all that night. 
There had been woe ; in every hollow place, 
And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow. 
Women lay mourning ; for the serpent lodged 
That night within the gates, and had decreed, 
" I will "(or ever I come) that ye drive out 
The women, the abhorred of my soul." 
Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, 
Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 
Oi- flights of azure doves that lit to drink 
The water of the river ; or, new born, 
The quivering butterflies in companies. 
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge. 
Like living crocus beds, and also drank. 
And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hands 
They dipped between the lilies, or with robes 
Full of ripe fruitage, sat atid peeled and ate. 
Weeping ; or comforting their little ones. 
And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns 
Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet eat 



m A STOR Y OF DOOM. 

Mournfully, and he said, " The men of might 

Are willing ; let thy master, youth, appear." 

And Japhet said, "^ So be it ;" and he thought, 

" Now will I trust in God ; " and he went in 

And stood before his father, and he said, 

" My father ; " but the Master answered not, 

But gazed upon the curt^'iins of his tent, 

Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad 

As ready for the journey, and his feet 

Were sandaled, and his staff was at his side ; 

And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 

And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 

Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift 

His hand to heaven, and cried, " My father's God I '* 

But neither whisper came nor echo fell 

When he did listen. Tlierefoie he went on 

" Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. 

My fatlier charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 

Prevail with thee to turn and bear me hence, 

For God appointed me my task, to preach 

Before the mighty.' I must do my part 

(O, let it not displease thee), for he said 

But yesternight, ' VVlien they shall send for me, 

Take me before them.' And I sware to him. 

I pray thee, therefore, count liis life and mine 

Precious ; for I that sware, I will perform." 

Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence : 
Take up the litter." And "they set their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 

And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 
Within the fairest hall where all were fair, 
Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopicd 
With work of women. And the dragon lay 
In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 
He counseled them, fi)r they did speak by turns ; 
And the)', being proud, miglit nothing master them, 
But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 
And when the younger taunted him, submiss 



A SrOJi Y OF DOOM. ^1 

Fte testified great humbleness, and cried, 
" A cruel God, forsootii ! but nay, O nay, 
I wiil not think it of Ilini, tliat lie meant 
To threaten these, O, when 1 look on them, 
IIow doth my soul admire." 

And one stood forth. 
The youngest ; of his brethren named " the Rock." 
" Speak out," quoth he, " thou toothless, slavering 

thing, 
"What is it ? thinkest thou that such as we 
Should he afraid ? What is this goodly doom?" 
And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," said he, 
"Thou art not fully grown, and every one 
I look on standeth liigher by the head. 
Yea, and the shouldei's, than do other men •, 
Forsooth, thy servant tliought not thou would fear, 
Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 
" Speak," cried they ; and with mild, persuasive 

eyes. 
And flattering tongue, he spoke. 

" Yc mighty oi.es 
It hath been known to you these many days 
IIow that for piety I am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious : if I lie, 
As hath been whispered, it is but for sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think Ilim hara, 
For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or yet may not be so) on me been hard ; 
Be not ye therefore v>'roth for my poor sake ; 
I am contented to have earned your weal, 
Tbousrh I must therefore suffer. 



'O 



" Now to-dny 
One Cometh, yea, an harmless mnn, a fool. 
Who boasts ho hath a mcssaue froii\ our God, 
And lest that you, for l)ravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his prate. 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, i am here." 



SOS A STORY OP DOOM. 

Then spoki the Leader, •' How now, snake ? Thy 

words 
Ring false. Wby ever liest thou, snake, to us? 
Thou coward ! none of us will see thee harmed. 
I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain ; 
Myself have hewn down com|tanies, and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
And hast ihou, driveler, panting sore for age, 
Come with a force to bid us spare one fool ? " 

And S.itnn answered, "Nay you ! be not wroth ; 
Yet true il is, and yet i ot all the truth. 
\o\\v servant would have told the rest, if now 
(For fullness of your life being fretted sore 
At mine infii'inities, whieh God in vain 
J supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 
My speech to stop." And he they called " the Oak'* 
Made answer, " 'Tis a good snake ; let him be. 
Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast? 
Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear, 
Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 
Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; ' make stout thy 

heart. 
What ! hast thou lied to this gi eat company ? 
It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 
Thou wcrt not willing to offend with truth." 
" Yea, majesties," quuth Satan, " thus it was," 
And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 
'• O, can it be, compassionate as brave. 
And housed in cunning works tkemselves have 

reared. 
And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, 
And ruling nobly, that He, not content 
Unless alone he reiuneth, looks to bend 
Or break them in, like slaves to ciy to Him, 
' What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?' 
Or eI^e to eat of death ? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 



A STORY OF DOOM. 809 

And reason, which I also share with you, 

Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 

' Believe not aught against thy God ; believe, 

Since Ihou canst never reach to do Hira wrong, 

That lie will never stoop to do thee wrong. 

Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind ; ' 

Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind. 

Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think 

The message is not like what I have learned, 

By reason and experience, of the God. 

Tiierefore no message 'tis. The man is mad." 

'J'hereat the Leader laughed for scorn. " Hold, snake ^ 

If God be just, thei-e shall be reckoning days. 

We rather would He were a partial God, 

And, being strong, he sided with the strong. 

Turn now thy reason to the other side, 

And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 

We would have none of it." 

And Satan fawned ; 
" My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was wrotli with man, and came 
And slew him, that shoidd make an empty world, 
But not a better nation." 



This replied, 
" Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
A better nation ; maybe, He designs, 
]f none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas I my heart being full ol' love for men, 
I cannot choose but think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes, 
Since He will have your fear, that love alono 
Sufficeth not, and 1 admire, and say, 
* Give nie, O friends, your love, and give to Go4 



810 A STOJ? y OF DOOM. 

Your fear.' " But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
*' We ai'e not strong ihat any we will fear, 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 



BOOK VII. 

And while he «poke there was a noise without } 
The curtains of the door were flung aside, 
And some with heavy feet bare in, and set 
A litter on the floor. 

The Master (a^ 
tTpon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness, 
Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his i)lnce 
The jeweled-drngon ; and the dragon lauglied, 
And subtly ])eered at him, till Japhet shook 
AVith rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, 
Hissing, " Thou brown haired youth, come up to me j 
I fain would have thee for my shrine afar, 
To serve among an liost as beautiful 
As thou : draw near." It hissed, and Jai)het felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
" F;itlier ! O help, the serpent draweth me !" 
And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils 
A netted^bird. But still his father lay 
IJnccmscious, and tlu^ mighty did iiot s]ieak, 
But half in fear and half in wonderment 
Beiield. And yet again the dragon Jaughed, 
And leereil at him and hissed ; and Japhet strove 
Vainly to take away his spell set eyes, 
And moved to go to him, till piercingly 
Crying out, "God I forbid it, God in heaven I" 
T!io dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes 
As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released, 
He fell back staggeruig ; and at noise of it, 
And clash of Ja[)liet's weap' ns on the floor, 
^ad Japhet's voice crying out, " I loathe thee snake \ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 811 

1 hate tliee ! O, T hate tlid i " came again 
The soiiscH of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 
And h)oking, as one 'mazed, dis(re>sl'iilly 
Upon the ini!jfhty, said, " Ont! eaUed on (tO(1 : 
Wiieie is my God? If God have need of Jue, 
Let Him come down and touch my lips with 

stren<j^th, 
Or dying I sliall die." 

It came to pass. 
W hilo lie was speaking, that the curtains swayed ; 
A rusliing wind did move througlout tlie phice, 
And all tiie pillars shook, and on the head 
Of Noa'.i tlie hair was lifted, and there i)layed 
A somewhat as it were a light, upon 
His hreast ; then fell a darkm^ss, and men heard 
A whisper as of one thatsp;ike. With that, 
The daunted miglity ones kept silent watch 
Until the wind had ceased and darkness Hed, 
When it grew light, there curled a cloiul of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon lay. 
It hid him, lie had called his ministrants, 
And hid them veil him thus, that none might look; 
Also the folk who came with Noah had iled. 

15at Noah was seen, for he stood up orect, 
Aiui leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
And they did reach toward the man their staves, 
And cry with loud accord, " Hail, sorcerer, hail I*" 

And he made answer, " Hail ! T am a man 

'i'liat is a shi])wright. I was born afar 

To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, 

Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 

I l)ring a message, — lay you it (o heart ; 

For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 

'Prepare yoTir hou>es, or I come,' saith He, 

* A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, 



813 A STOJ? Y OF DOOM. 

* What have vre done ? ' Your dogs may answer tbatv 

To make whom fiercer for the chase ye feed 

With captives whom ye slew not in the war, 

But saved alive, and living ihiow to them 

Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 

Their firstboin ye do lake and offer u^ 

To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk 

Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 

Tender. Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 

Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work 

By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 

They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends 

May answer that, — (their bleached bones cry out), — 

For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands, 

Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace. 

The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 

Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 

To tell of more, the time would be so long 

To do it, and your time, O mighty ones. 

Is short"), — but rather say, ' We sinners know 

"Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 

While yet there may be respite, and repent. 

" ' Or else,' saith He that formed you, * I swear, 

By all the silence of the time to come, 

l^Y the solemnities of death, — yea, more, 

By Mine own power and love which ye havt 

scorned, — 
That I will come. I will command the clouds, 
And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 
With all my storms the ocean for your sake, 
And break for you the boundary of the deep. 

" ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

i 

Should I forbear, ; 
Tliat have been ])atient ? I will not forbear ! 
For yet,' saith He, ' the weak cry out ; for yet 
The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
Lifts up to Me his chain. I, therefore, I 



Will hear tlu'iii. I hy aealli will scatter you ; 
Yea, ami by death will draw them to My breast, 
And gather ihein to ])cace. 

'* * But yet,' saith lie 
• Repent, and tnrn you. Whorei'ore will ye die ? ' 

" Turn thJn, O turn, while yet the enemy 
Untamed of man t'atefuHy moans afar ; 
F;)r if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
Then shall the crested wave mako sport, and beat 
You min;hty at your <loors. Will ye be wroth ? 
Will ye'^forbid it? Monsters of the deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their youn.u, 
And swim atween your han.niii.u's, all of them 
(Mostly with broidered work, and 'rare with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress,— 
There did yc^ make you vile) ; but ye shall lie 
IVreekly, and storm a'nd wind shall rage above, 
And urge the weltering wave. 

<" Yet,' saith thy God^ 
' Son,' ay, to each of you Tie saith, * O son. 
Made lii My imaue, lieautiful and strong. 
Why wilt t'hou die? Tiiy Father loves thee well. 
Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, 
CKson ! an 1 no moie dare the wrath of love. 
Tjive for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
Wl;y wilt thoa die?' Hero will 1 make an end." 

Now cvc'- <>n his dais the dragon lay, 
F( i<,n>i;i<j- to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they hdd named,— 
Some at their fellows, for the younger sort — 
As men the !(!ss acquaint with deeds of blood, 
And Lciveii to learning and the arts of i)eace 
(TlieiT- fath'-Ts having crushed rebellion out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
They said, " A man, or false or fanatic, 



814 A STOJiY OF DOOM. 

May claim good audience if he fill our ears 

With what is strange : and we would heur again.* 

The Leader said, *' An audience hath boon given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words arc naught ; 
A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, 
And it is not our manner tliat we sit 
Beyond the noonday ; " then they grandly lose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with tbeir Leader moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, 
And the noise of pipes, away. But some Avere left 
About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
Couched on his da'is. 

Then one to Japhet said, — ■ 
One called "the Cedar Tree," — "Dost thou, too, 

think 
To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned ? " 
Ard Japhet said, *' 1 think not, nor desire, 
Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried. 
To one surnamed " the Pine," — " Brother, behooves 
That deep we cut our names in yonder crag, 
Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
Our names, and he may answer, 'Matters not. 
For my part I forget them.' " 

Japhet said, 
"They might do worse than that, tliex might deny 
That sucli as you have ever been." With that 
'i'hey answered, " No, thou dost not think it, no 1 ** 
And Japhet, being (h:ifed, replied in heat, 
*' And wherefore ? it' ye say of what is sworn, 
* lie will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
For future men, if any talk on it, 
To say, ' He did not do it ? ' " They replied, 
With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stoiit witn us. 
And yet he cowered before ihe poor old snake. 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we" pi'ay you now^ 
To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do • 



A STOR Y OF DOOM. Slfi 

And likewise tell your sons, ' " The Cedar Tree ^ 
Was a good giant, for lie struck me not, 
Though he was young and full of sport, and though 
1 taunted him.' " 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the shipwright spoke 
" How wilt thou certify to ns thy truth ?" 
And h.e related to them all his ways 
From the beginning : of the Voice that called ; 
Moreover, how the shij) of doom was built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the mic>:hty God 
Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars ? 
No, thou mad preachei', no. If He, Eterne, 
Be ordering of His far infinitudes, 
And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, 
As if the shadow of His hand had fallen 
On one that He forgot, and. troubled it." 

Then said the Master, " Yet,— who told thee so?** 



And from his dai's the feigning serpent hissed : 
" Prpa(^hei-, the liglit within, it was that shined, 
And told him so. The pious will iiave dread 
Him lo declare such as ye rashly told. 
The (!ourse of God is one. It likes not us 
To tiimk of Him as being acquaint with change ; 
It were beneath Hiui. Nay, the finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They must rule ; 
They do ; and I have set myself between, — 
A visible thing for Avorship, sith His face 
' (For He is hard) He showeth not to men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, 
To be interpreter, and teach mankind • 
A pious lesson by my piety. 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires,—' 
It were beneath Hira." 



816 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And tlic Master »aicl, 
"Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, 
if He whom thou hast dared to speak against 
Would suffer it." *' I may not chide with thee /^ 
It answered, "now ; but if there come such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
In all men's sight, shall my dominion then 
Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 

Then quoth the Leader of the young men : " Sir, 
We scorn you not ; speak further ; yet our thought 
First answer. Not but. by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fashion of the M'orld 
We heretofore have never known to change ; 
And will God change it now ?" 

He then replied : 
" AVhat is thy thought ? There is no miracle ? 
There is a great one, which thou hast not read, 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man. 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, 
* I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
lied clay is all my make, myself, my whole, 
And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give thee wings to play among the rays 
O' the morning. If thy thought be, ' I am one,— 
A spirit among spirits, — and the world 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, thy dream 
lieing all,' the dominating mountains strong 
Sh;ill not for that forbear to lake thy breath. 
And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself. 
Being in the Avorld and of the world, thyself, 
Hast breathed in breath from Him that m.ado the 

world. 
Thou dostj'inht^rit, as thy Maker's son. 
That which He is, and that which he hath made : 
Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, — • 
Thou art thy Father's Miracle. 



A STO/iV OP DOOM. 61t 

« Behoia, 
He buildeth up the stars in companies ; 
lie niado for tliem a law. To man He said, 

* Freely I give tiiee freedom.' What remains? 
O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 

Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His waya : 
l)Ut first thou must be loyal, — love, O man, 
Thy Father, — liearken when He pleads with thee. 
For there is something left of Him (i'en now, — 
A witness for thy Father in thy soul, 
Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone, 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 

* The rivers in their course forever run, 
And turt) not from it. He is like to them 

Wlio made tiiem.' Think the rather, ' With my fool 

I have turned the rivers from their ancient way 

To water grasses that were fading. What 1 

Is God my Father as the river wave. 

That yet descendeth, — like the lesser thing 

He made, and not like me, a living son. 

That changed the watercourse to suit his will T 



o 



" Man is the miracle in nature. God 

Is the Onh Miracle to man. Behold, 

* There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 

In that thou sayest ail. 'i^o Be is more 

Of wonderful tiian, being, to have wrought, 

Or reigned, or rested. 

" Hold then there, content j 
Learn that to love is the one way to know 
Or God or man : it is not love received 
That maketh man to know the inner life 
Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 
Shall do It. Love thy Father, and no more 
His doings shall he strange. Thou shalt not fret 
At any counsel, then, ihat He will send, — 
No, nor I'ebel, albeit He have with thee 
Great reservations. Know, to Be is mora 



818 A STOR Y OF DOOM. 

Than to have acted ; j-ca, or, after rest 
And ])atience, to have risen and been wroth 
JJroken the sequence of an ordered earth, 
And troubled nations." 

Then the drao-on s'ghed 
" Poor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, pood sooth, 
My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
1^'resh loyalty from this j>oor loyal soul. 
I,et us go forth — (n)yself will also go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for tliat, 
We know, is pleasing to the mighty God : 
But as foi" building many arks of wood, 
O majesties ! when lie shall counsel you 
lIiMSicLF, then build. What say you, shall it be 
An hundred i)xen, — fat, well liking, white? 
An hundred V why, a thousand were not mucli 
To such as you." Then Noah lift w\) his ai'iiis 
To heaven, and cried, " Tiiou aged sliapo of sin, 
The Lord rebuke thee." 



BOOK VIIL 

Then one ran, crying, a\ hiie Niloiya wrought, 
"The Master cometh ! " and she went within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Siiem 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the fiidd. 
And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He ie})]ied 
*' VVeli 1 and, I pray you, is it well at home ?" 

But Shem made answer, "Can a house do well, 
If he that should command it bides afar? 
"N'et well is thee, because a fair free maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they biiiig her in 
'J'his (lay at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the floor, 
A.nd j>luck and cover thick ihe same with leaves. 



A StOkV Of DOOM JIS 

C f all sweoGt herbs, — I w.irr.iiit, yo sli.ill lu-ar 
No footfall where she treadelh ; and the se;it» 
Are ready spread with robes; the tables set 
Willi sxoldcn baskets, red pomegranates shred 
To lill tiieiu ; and the rubied censers smoke, 
Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, 
And frankincense and cedar." 

Jni>1iet said, 
'' I will betroth her to me straight ; and went 
(Vet labored ho with sore discpiietudc) 
To gather grapes,a:id reap and bind the sheaf 
I'\)r his b(>trothal. And his brother spake, 
" Where is our father ? doth he preach to-day ?^ 
And .Taphet answered, " Yea. He said to rne, 
'(to forward ; I will follow when the folk 
J>y yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned."* 

And Shem replied, " How thinkest thou ? — thine ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, "I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 
How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 
How one must stride that Avill ascend th(^ steps 
That lead to their wide halls ; and how they drav«^, 
With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 
And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, 
They seated proudly on their ivory thi-ones. 
And scorned him : and of their peaked hoods, 
And garments wrought u|)on, each with the tale 
Of him that Avore it, — all his manfid deeds 
(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 
Of kings that they had slain ; and some, whosi 

swords 
Many had ])ierced, wore vestures all of red. 
To signify much blood) : and of their pr'ide 
He told, but of the vision in the tent 
He told him not. 



, .. '\ 



m A StOkY OP DOOM. 

And when they reached the hou9«t 
Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
" All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have found 
A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap 
The late ripe corn," So he went in with her. 
And she did talk with him right motherly : 
" It hath been full told me how ye loathed 
To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself, 
Did she not all declare to me ? " 

He said, 
" Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
" Yea," quoth his mother ; " she made clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
* I will not take her ! ' Now, it was not I 
That wrought to have it so." And he replied, 
" I know it." Quoth the mother, " It is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in my heart." 
" But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
"Ay," quoth Niloiya, " and thy wife no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon,— - 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt ?" He said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 
From off his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 
My father !" Then Niloiya turned herself. 
And lo ! the shipwright stood. " All hail ! " quott 

she, 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth j 
But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his neck the robe 
Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And Japhet said to hira, 
'* My father, my belov6d, wilt thou yet 
Be sad because of scorning ? Eat, this day ; 
For as an angel in their eyes thou art 
Who stand before thee." But he answered, " Peace .' 
Thy words are wide." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 831 

And when Niloiya hevj-d. 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
And wiiie ? Behold, I thought to wed my son, 
)^.'» n this Jivphet ; but is this a time, 
V»'hon sad is he to vvliom is my desire, 
And lying under sorrow as from God ?" 

lie answered, " Yea, it is a time of times ; 
Bring in tiie maid." Niloiya said, " The maid 
That'lirst I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
Bi.t I have found another ; yea, good sooth, 
The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 
'' Comfort thy heart, and eat : moreover, know 
How that thy great work even to-day is done. 
Sir, thy great sliip is iinished, and the folk 
(For I,' according to ihy will, have paid 
All that was left us to them for their wage) 
Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, 
Honey and oil, — much victual ; yea, and fruits, 
Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say 
It is thy will to take it for thy hold, 
Our fastness and abode." He answered, " Yea, 
Else wherefore was it built ?" She said, " Good m 
I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 
Have ever been, ' If God shall send a flood, 
There will I dwell ; ' I pray you therefore wait 
At least till lie doth send it." 

And he turned, 
Antl answered nothing. Now the sun was low 
While yet she spake ; and Japhet came to them 
In goodly raiment, and upon liis arm 
The garment of betrothal. And with that 



322 >* STOJiY OF DOOM. 

A noise, and then brake in a woman-slave 
And Aniaiant. 1'iiis, with folding of lier hands 
Did say full meekly, " If 1 do oifend, 
Yet have not I been willinc; to offend * 
For now this wom.in will not be denied 
Herscuf to tell her errand." 

And they sat. 
Tiien spoke Cue woman, " If I do offend, 
Pi ay you forgive I he bond-.slave, for her tongue 
Is fur ht r mistress. ' Lo,' my mistress saith, 
' Put off thy bravery, bridegroom ; fold away, 
Motht^'r, thy webs of pride, tby eostly robes 
Woven of many colors. We have heard 
Thy master. Lo, t"-day right evil things 
He prophesied to us that were his friends ; 
Therefore, my answer : — God do so to me ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 
Than he dr.] threaten, if my damsel's foot 
Ever draw nigh thy door.' " 

And when she beardj 
Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
But Ja|)liet came unto the slave, where low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, " Dejiart i 
Say to thy mistress, ' It is Avell.' " With that 
She turned lierself, and she made haste to flee. 
Lest any, for tbose evil words she bi-onght, 
Would smite lier. But the bondmaid of the houi 
Lift np her hand and said, " If I offend, 
It was not of my heart : thy damsel knew 
Naught of this matter." And lie held to her 
His linnd and touched her, and said, " Amarant 1 " 
And when she looked upon bini, she did take 
And s])read before her face her radiant locks, 
Trembling. And Ja[»liet said, " Lift up thy face, 
O f.airest of the daugliters, tliy fair face ; 
For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with the robn 
Of thy beti'othal ;" — and he took her locks 
In his two hands t« part them from Utr brpw, 



A STOjiY OF DOOM. 821 

And laid tliera on licr sliouMers ; and ho said, 
" Sweet are tlie blushes of thy face," and jjut 
Tlie robe upon Iier, having said, " Behold, 
I have repented nie ; and oft by iii.iiht, 
*In the waste wilderness, while ail tilings slept, 
I thought upon ihy words, lor they were sweet. 
For this I make thee free. And now thyself 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, 
Wrought on. with imngery of fruitful bough, 
And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, 
Cover the ripph-s of thy tawny hair." 
So, when she held her peace, he brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of wedlock ; ay, he took 
The golden cup of wine to di'ink with her, 
And laid the sheaf nj)on herartns. He said, 
" Like as my fathers in the older days 
Led home the (huighters whom they chose, do I , 
Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I set . 
Upon thy head ! ' do L Eat of my bread, 
Rule in my house, be n.istress of my slaves, 
And mother of my children." 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, "Behold 
My wife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
[ ])ray you, kiss her." And the Master did : 
[le said, " Be mother of a multitude. 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
A.id favor in your sight." 

And Japhet saidj 
•^S<veet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 
Ano 01 ought xni first. I leave her in thy hand ; 



884 ^ srOA-V OF DOOM, 

Ilavo cnre or. her. till 1 shnll conn> njjnin 
Atiil :isk luT ol iIkh','' So thc>\ uoni npart, 
He arul his lullicr, lu lliu iMui°ria<'u least. 



BOOK II. 

Ti[K pravrr of "Nonli. Tlio man wonf foitli l)v nisj-hl 

And llsiciK'il ; ami ilio oaitli was dark and ^till, 

A\id Ik' was diivi-n ol" his pnat liistrrss 

Into tlio i\)ivst ; l)iit the birds of night 

(SatiiV swtH'tly ; and lu' I'l'll npon his IV.oo, 

And ciK-d, "(io«l, (Jod I Tii)- bdiows and Thy wuvce 

llavi* swadowcd up my soul. 

" Whoro is my (u>d ? 
For T have somewhat yot to plead w iili liue ; 
For 1 have walked the strands ol Tiiy giiat d< ep, 
Heard the dnd ihnnder of its r;;>:e alar. 
Anil its dread nu>aning. O, the lield is sweet, — 
Spare it. 'I'he delii-aie woods mnke white their trees 
AVitij blossom, — sj^are llnin. I.ifo is sweet ; behold 
There is mneh cattle, and the wild ;ind tame, 
Father, tlo feed in ijiiiet, — ^\\-m\^ iheiu. 

"Cndl 
AVhere is my God ? The lono- wave dolli not nar 
Her vliostly erest to liek the forest up. 
And like a chief in battle f.all, — net yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, fiom r:'gge«l holes 
In hcavtMi, the tormiMit of their forked lergnis, 
And, like fell serpt'Uts, dart and siintj. — nut yet. 
The wmds awake not, with iheir awl'nl wirgs 
T.) wiunow, even as ch.-ilT, from ont their lr;;ek, 
All that withstandeth. and bring d<nvn the pride 
Of all things strong and all things high, — 

" Kot yet 
O, I'^t it not he yet. "Where is my God ? 
How am 1 saved, if 1 aiul mine be saved 



A STOR Y OF DOOM. 825 

Alono ? f am not, saved, for I Iiavc lovod 
My coiiiiM V and my km. Must I, 'I'liy llii-all, 
Over t.lu'ir lands Ik* lord wlii'ii they are <;oiie ? 

I uo'ild not : s|)are tlicm, Mij^lily, Spare Thyself, 
For Thou dosl lovo ihvin gieaily, — and if not. . ." 

Another prayincr unremote, a Voire 
Calm as tlie Hoiitude between wide stars. 

" Wiioro is my Ood. who loveth this lost world, — • 

Lost from its |ilaro and name, l)nt won for Tlieo ? 

Where is my midtitnde, my multitude, 

'I'hat I shall gather?" And white snioke went up 

From incense that was hiirninij;, hut there gleamed 

No liiiht of tire, save dimly to reveal 

Till' whiteness risiiej;, as the prayer oC him 

'Ihat mourned. ** My (Jo.l, appear tor me, appear; 

(live me my ranltiiude, for it is mine. 

The hitterness of <h'ath I li.ive not feared. 

To-morrow sliall Thy couris, O (iod, he full. 

Th.'ii shall the captive from his honds go free, 

Then shall tiie thrall fiiul rest, that knew not rest 

l<'''om Lihor ;vnd from Mows. Tiic sorrowfid — 

'J'liat said of jny, ' What is tt?' aM<l of son^^s, 

• We have not heard them ' — shall he jjjhul and sing j 

Then siiall the little ones that knew not Thee, 

And such as I. card not of Thi'e, sec Thy face, 

And, seeing, dwell content." 

Tiio praver of Noah. 
W^ cried out in the darkness, " liejr. () (iod. 
Hear IIim: hear this one, ihrou^h the g ites of death, 

II life hi' all past p."aying for, () give 

To riiv ureal multitude a way to peace ; 
Give li'^m to iliii. 

«' Itu* vet." s:iid he "O yet, 
If there b. respite for i he tcrr hh*. 
The |»roud, yea. such :is s((.iii Tlice. — and if not 
Let not mine eyes behold iIkh lalL" 



836 A STOR V OF DOOM. 

He cried, 
*• Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great JudgCj 
With a perfect heait ; I have but half believed, 
While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no i)lace 
For my repentance, yea, no houj- remains 
For doing of that work again. O lost, 
Lost wcrld ! " And while he prayed, the daylighf 

dawned. 
And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
Before the Lord. And all was still ; and now 
In that great quietnejss the sun came up. 
And there were marks across it, as it were 
The sha<lo\v of a Hand upon the sun, — 
Three tiugers dark and dioad, and afterward 
There rose a white thick mist, that peacefully 
F(dded the fair earth in hor fiincrai shroud.— 
The earth that gave no token, save that now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 
Behind his mantle, saying, "I have made 
Great preparation, and it may be yet. 
Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 
This day to meet me, there may enter in 
Many that yesterniglit thought scorn of all 
My bidding." And because the fog was thick. 
He said, " Forbid it. Heaven, if such there be, 
That they should miss the way." And even then 
There was a noise of weeping and lament ; 
The words of them, that were afiPrighted, yea, 
And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 
The mother and her children, and they cried, 
*' Speak, father, what is this ? What hast thou done * " 
And when he lifted up his face, he saw 
Japhet, his well-beloved, Avhere he stood 
Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his breast. 
And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 
And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 
White in the deadly gloom. 



A StORV OP DOOM, 8g3 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did kneel, 
And wring their hands. 

One cried, " O, speak to us j 
We are affrighted ; we have dreamed a dream, 
Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk. 
Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned. ''Alas ! O father, for my dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend for me. 
One said, * And wherefore should this woman live. 
When only for her children, and for her. 
Is woe and degradation ?' Then he laughed, 
The other crying, 'Let alone, O Prince"; 
Hinder her not to live and bear much seed. 
Because I hate her.' " 

But he said, " Rise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for 1 have learned no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream myself 
Will hale thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
«*My sons, if one of you will hear my words. 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the day. 
How fares it?" 

And the fateful darkness grew, 
But Sheni went up to do his mother's will ; 
And all was one as though the frighted earlh 
Quivered and fell a-trenlbling ; then they hid 
Their faces every one, till he returned, 
And spake not. " Nay," they cried, " what hast thou 

seen ? 
O, is it come to this?" He answered thera, 
" The door is shut." 



(38 CONTRASTED SONdS 

CONTRASTED SONGa 

SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 

( Old Strjle.) 

METHnuGiiT tlie Ktais werc blinVjng brigat^^ 

And the old brig's sails mifurled ; 
I said, " I will sail to niy love this night 

Al the other side of the world." 
I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — 

'J'he sua shot up from the bourn ; 
But a dove that jHMched ujion the mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dt)ve ! O fond dove I 

And dove with the white breast, 
Ijet me alone, the di"er.m is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 

My true love fares on this great hill. 

Feeding his sheep for aye ; 
I looked in his hut, but all was still, 

My love was gone away. 
I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No flame did flash, nor fair hlue reek 
Kose up to show me his place. 
O last love ! O first love I 

Wv love with the true heart. 
To tliink I have come to this your home 
And yet — we are apart 1 

My love ! He stood at my right hand, 

His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Mcthought he said, " In this far land, 

O, is it thus we meet? 
Ah, maid most dear, 1 am not here; 

1 have no place, — no part, — 
No dwelling more by sea or shore, 

But only in thy heart." 



REMONSTRANCE. 829 

O fair dove ! O fond dove I 

Till night rose over the bourn. 
The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, 

Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 



REMONSTRANCE. 

Daughters of Eve ! your mother did not well : 
She laid the apple in your father's hand, 

And we have read, O wonder! what befell — 
The man was nut deeeived, nor yet could stand 

lie chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — • 

With her could die, but could not live alone. 

Daughters of Eve ! lie did not fall so low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell : 

For something- better, than as gods to know, 
Tiiat liusband in that home h f t oif to dwell ; 

For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, 

Shall man be first and best for evermore. 

Daufjlitors of Eve ! it was for your dear salce 
Tiie world's first hero died an uncrowned king; 

But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 
And maiie his married h)ve a sacred thing : 

For \et liis nobler sons, if aught be true, 

Find the lost Edt'ii in their love to you. 



880 SONG FOU THE 

SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESUR. 

RECTION. 

{A Humble Imitation.) 

** And birds of calm sit brooding on the cbarm6(? 

wave." 



It 18 the moon of night, 
And tlie world's Grtat Lljilit 
Gone out, slie widow-like doili carry her . 
The moon hath veiled her faoc, 
Nor h)()ks oil that dread place 
Where lie lieth dead in .sealed sejralcher; 
And heaven and liades, cmptietl, lend 
Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. 

Tier above tier they rise, 
Their wings new line the skies, 
And shed out conifoiling light among the stars ; 
liut they ot" the other place 
The lieavenlv siiiJis deface. 
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mare j 
Yet high they sit in the throned state, — 
It is the houi of darkness to them dedicate. 

And first and highest set, 
Where the black shades are met, 
'Jlie lord of night and hades leans him down ; 
His gleaming eyeballs show 
More awful than the glow 
Which hangeth by the points of his dread crc- 
And at his feet, where liglitnings })lay, 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their da'. 

Lo ! one, with eyes all wide, 
As she were sight denied, 



maiiT OF aiiusrs REsukHEcrtoN, 83i 

Sits l)liii(]ly fi'C'lincf .at Iser distaff old ; 

Ono, :is distiaii^lit with woe, 

Letting lliu Kpindle go, 
> Her starrj sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 

And one right mournful hangs lier head, 
Complaining, " Woe is lue 1 I may not cut the thread. 

" All men, of every birth, 
Yea, great ones of the earth, 
Kings and tlieir eounciliors, liave I drawn down ; 
JJut I am held of Thee, — 
Why dost Thou trouble me. 
To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy 

crown ? 
"Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
Lowly, uidettered, Galilean fishermen. 

" Olympian heights are bare 

Of whom men worshiped there, 
Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 

Their stately powers below 

Lie desolate, nor know 
This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 

But I am elder far tlian they ; — 
Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away 

*• Art thou come up for this, 
Dark regent, awful Dis ? 
And hast thou moved the deep to mark our end. 
ing? 
And stilled the dens beneath 
To see us eat of death, 
\Vith all the scoffing lieavens toward us bending? 
Help ! powei's of ill, see not us die ! " 
But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 

Her sisters, fallen on sleep. 
Fade in the upper deep. 



S5rt SONC rOH THE 

And their crrini lord sits on, in doleful trance ' 

Till her hiatk veil she rends, 

And with her dt-atlisiiiiek bends 
Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 

'I'lien, wht'liiied in night and no more seen, 
They leave the world a doubt if ever sucIj have beea 

And the winged armies twain 

Their awful wateli maintain ; 
They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. 

Ijehold, from Antres wide, 

Green Atlas ln';ne his sitle ; 
His moving woods ilii ir t;cark't clusters shed, 

The swnthing coif his front that cools, 
And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged poola 

Then like a heap of snow, 

Lying where grasses grow, 
3re glimmcrinii', while tlic moony lusters creej\ 

JMild-mannercd Alliens, dight 

\u dewy marbles w liit<', 
Aino.ig her god esses and gods asleep ; 

An>l, swaying on a ]iur|ile sen. 
The man) luoored galleys clustering at her quay. 

Also, 'ti«-at!i palm-trees' shade, 

Amid then camels laid. 
The pasiorai tribes with all ihcir flocks at rest ; 

Liki' to ihosc old-world folk 

With whom two angels broke 
The bread of men at Ahrani's courteous quest, 

When, listening as they pro]>hesied, 
t\ls desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied 

Or from the JNforians' land 

See worshiped Nil us bland. 
Taking the silver roa<l he gave the world, 

To wet bis ancient shrine 

With waters held divine, 
^nd touch his temple steps with wavelets cuiled, 



NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTI0I7. 833 

And list, ere darkness clianirc to cjray. 
Old inin:slrcl-tl)ru;iLL'tl Meiunuii cliauLmg in the day 

JMoreover, Indian glades, 

Where kneel tlie sun swart maids, 
On Giuiga's llctod tlieir volive tlowurs to throw, 

And laiineli i' the sultry night 

Their huining (-ressets bright, 
AIi'-<t like a Heet of stars thai southing go, 

Till on her bosom |tros)»erousl y 
She UoaLs them shining i'onh to sail the lulled sea 



o 



Nor hend lliey not their eyn 

Where ihe watch-tires sliine, 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Ijethlehem : 

They mark, in goodly wise, 

Tiie city of David lise. 
The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem ; 

And hear the 'sra)»6d Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping Irom the leaves of Olivet 

But now tlio setting moon 

To curtained lands must soon, 
In her obedient fashion, minister J 

She lirst, as loath to go, 

Lets her last silver How 
Upon her jMaster's sealed sepulcher ; 

An<l trees that in the garden spread, 
She kisseth all for sake of His low lying Head, 

Then.'neath the rim goes down ; 

And night with darkci- frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched long ; 

When some despairing eyes. 

Far in the murky skies, 
The unwisli5d waking by their gloom foretell , 

And blackness \\i^ the welkin swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings 



B3t SON'G rOR THE UIGHT, ETC 

Last, with amazed cry, 
The hosts asunder fly, 
Leaving an ein{»ty g-ilf of blackest hue ; 
Whence straiglilway shooteth down, 
By the Great Fatiier thrown, 
A niiglity angel, sd'ong and dread to view ; 
Au(l at his fall (he roeks are jxiil, 
The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremble 
ment ; 

The regions far and neai 

Quail with a pause of fear, 
More terrible than auglit since time began ; 

The winds, that dare not fleet, 

Drop at his awful feet. 
And in its bed wails the Midc ocean ; 

The flower of dawn forbears to blow, 
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 



& 



At stand, by ihat dreor/ place, 
He lifts his radiant face, 
And looks to heaven witli r^n'ereut love and fear; 
Then, M'hile the welkin quakes, 
And muttering thunder breaks, 
And lightnings shoot aiul oininoiis meteors drear. 
And all the daunted earth doth moan, 
He from the doors of death rolls O.ick the se.alhi 
stone. — 

— In regal quiet deep. 
Lo, One new waked from slcef) ! 
Behold, lie standeth in the rock-hewn door 1 
Thy children shall not die, — 
Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth I — they shnll live for evermore. 
Peace ! lo, lie lifts a priestly hand, 
And blesscth all the sons of men in every land 

Then, with great drend and wail, 
Fall down, likcj?torms of hail, 



SOxVG OF MARGARET. 833 

Tlie legions vi" vLe lost in fearful wise ; 

And they wliose bli.ssful race 

Peoples the l)etter place 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, 

And through the waxing saffron brede, 
Till tliey are lost in light, recede, and yet reoeda 

So while the fields are dim, 
And the rod sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign benign. 
All stars the most a(\mired. 
Into their blue retired, 
Lie hid, — the faded moon forgets to shine, — 
And, hurrying down the spliery way, 
Night flies and sweeps her shadow from the paths of 
day. 

But look I the Saviour blest. 

Calm after solemn rest. 
Stands in the garden 'ncath^IIis olive-boughs; 

The earliest smile of day 

Doth on His vesture play, 
And light the majesty of His still brows ; 

While angels hang with wings outspread, 
Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head 



SONG OF MARGARET. 

At, T saw her, we have met, — 

Married eyes, how sweet they be, — 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me? 
Silence ! make no more ado 1 

Did she think 1 should forget? 
Matters nothing, though 1 knew. 

Margaret, Margaret. 



SCNG OF THE GOING A WA IT. 

Once tljo'sc oyos. full sweet, fail ehy, 

Tuid a cerlMin lliinn lo iiiiiie j 
"Whra tlii-y lold i!ie I piil I'j', 

(>, Ko i-aivU^>=s of lilt' Mj;u. 
Surli :in i-nsy lliiwi; to take. 

Ami 1 iliii iiMi waiil il then ; 
Fool I 1 \\\>\\ Ml y iicari •\voul(i Wreak, 

kieorn i> liard uii hearls ol lueD. 

Scorn of pt'lf IS l>itlor woik,-^ 

Kacli of ll^ lias fill II iiuw : 
Bl.ii'sl skifs slu- coimled iiiirk, 

Si.li-lK'l.rayi'il of eyesi and brow; 
As for iiu'. I wenl my .\:iy, 

And a better man drew nigh, 
Fiiin to eai n, willi long ess«y, 

Whui ihe winner's hand ilirew by. 

Matters not in drscrls old, 

What was l)orn, and waxed, and yearnedj 
Year lo vear its.nleanint; told, 

I an» '.'onie, — its deeps are learned,— 
Come, bnt there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine Lave met. 
Silence I O, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



BONG OF -niE GOING A'^AT, 

"Or.n man, npon the green hillside, 
With yellow lloweiB bes|)rinkled oVr, 

How long in silence wilt thuu bide 
At this low stone door ? 

" I stoop : witliin 'tis dark and still ; 

But shadowy paths methinks there be^ 
And lead they far into the hill?" 

** Iraveler, come and see." 



A LILY AND A LCTB. 837 

"Tin 'lark, 'tis coM, and hung with gloom ; 

1 cai'u n*)t now williin lo stay, 
For I lice aritl me is t*carcely room, 

I will la-nce away." 

"N'>t so, not so, tlioii youllifiil p^nnst. 
Thy foot sliall issue loiili no more : 

Belioi'l the cliauilx-i- ol' lliy rust, 
And the closnig«loor I '* 

" O. have I 'sc-npeil the Avhistlinpj T>all, 
And striven «)n sniol<y lieids ol tij^ht, 

And sealed the 'lea<;iiered cily'ji wa]! 
Ic the <laugeious nigliL ; 

"And borne mv life uidianned still 

'I'in-ougli loaniing oulls of yea^ly spray, 

To y:eld il on a grassy lull 
Al the noon of day 'i '* 

" P<'ace ! Say thy prayers, and rjo to sleep^ 
'J'ill .-iome (ime. One my seal sliall break. 

And deep shall answer unto <h'ep, 
Whtu lie cneth, * Aw4.K.a 1 ' " 



A ULY AND A LUTE. 
{Soriff of iht uncommunicated JJeal) 



I orKNKD the eyes of my souL 

And behold, 
A white rivei-iily : a lily awake, a!:d aware, — 
For Bhe set her face upward, — aware bow in scarlet 

ami gol<l 
A long wrinkled (doud. left, ])cliindof the wandering air, 
Lay over witli fold upon loid, 
"With fold ui;OL ioid. 



A llLV AK'D A LUTB, 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her 
also ashamed, 
\ The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair ; 
And over the far-away mouuiaius that no man hath 
named, 
And that no foot hath trod, 
Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it 

were, 
A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them 

endure, 
Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep theni' 
selves pure, 
And look up to God. 



Then I said, ** In rosy air. 

Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
While the blushing early ray 
Whitens into i)orl'ect day, 
River-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone ? 
Nay, but 1 will bear thee far. 
Where yon clustering steeples ar^ 
And the bells ring out o'erhead, 
And tlie stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmer's pace, 
Trading it the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit 
By their butler, ])raisnig it ; 
And the latest news is told, 
W^hile the fruit and cream are sold \ 
And the friciidly gossips greet. 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met, 
White one, any folk as yet 
W^ho would st'nd ii(> blessing upi, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cnp. 
And by tlioe might they divine* 
* May 1 but thou a spirit art j 



A Lliy AND A LUriL. «^ 

Men shall take tliee in the mart 
For tlie gliost of tlieir best thought, 
Raised at noon, and near them hrowght 2 
Or the prayer they made last night, 
Set before tliem all in white." 

And 1 pnt out my rash hand, 
For I thouglit to draw to land 
Tlie white'lily. Was it fit 
Sueli a blossom should exi)and. 
Fair enough for a world's wonder, 
And no mortal gather it ? 
No. I strove, and it went under, 
And I drew, but it Avent down ; 
And the water-weeds' long tressedi 
And the overlapping cresses, 
Sullied its admired crown. 
Then along the river strand. 
Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled, 
And its snowy pureiiess soiled : 
O I 1 took it in my hand, — 
You will never see it now. 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, I cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow- 
If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, 
And the flick(U-iiigs over white 
Mountain summits far away, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind, 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Coulil have passed in kingly moody 
Would lie ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing. 
In the grace that it did bnng, 



MO A ULY AND A LUTE. 

An<1 thp l;p:l»t that oVr it flowed, 
Willi tlu> |iiir('iu'ss that it sliowed. 
Ami the imrciu'ss tli;il it iiu'ant V 
C'oiiltl Ir- skill to make it seen 
As he saw V For lliis. I ween, 
liti were iikewibe iiiipuleuU 



IX. 

1 opened the doora of my heart 

And behold, 
Th<i>ro wac ninsic within and a pnntj, 
A;:d ec-h-5<'s did leed on ll>e sweetness, repeating it 

long. 
I opened i he <h)ors of my heart. And hcliold. 
There was musio that jilayed itself out in a?olian 

notes ; 
Then was lieard, as a far-away hell at long intervals 
tole.!, 
That miirtnnrs and floats, 
And jireseniy dietli, roitiotten of forest and wdid, 
And etniu's in all passion again and a irenihlenicnt 
so It, 
That m.iketh the listener full oft 
Vo whisper, " Ah ! would 1 might iiear it forever arid 
aye, 
VVh'Mi I Kiil in the heat of tlie day, 
W hen 1 walk in the euld." 

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
'I'luTe was music within, and a song. 
But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, 

thick and strong, 
Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting 
was drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 



A LILY AND A LUTE. C41 

For tho welkin wiis moaning, (lie waters were stirred 

on tlie shore, 
And trees in ilie diiik all around 
Were sliaken. It lliun<l( red. "Hark, liark ! .there 

is thunder to-niij;!.! ! 
The sullen long wave reurs her head, and comes down 

willi a will ; 
The awfid while loiigues are kt loose, and the stars 

are all dead ; — 
There is thuiidi-r ! it ihunders ! and ladders of light 

|{uii u|). There is ihunder ! " I Haid, 
"Loud thunder! it tiiunders 1 and up in the dark 

overhead, 
A down i)()uring eloud ((hero is thunder !), a down- 

liouring cloud 
Hails out her lieiee message, and quivers the deep in 

its bed, 
And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter 

aloud. 
And j)auso with an ominous tremble, till, great in their 

The heavens and earth come together, and meet with 

a crash ; 
And the light is so fell as if Time had come down with 

the Hash, 
And th(} story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last i)ago. 

Now tlu'ir bar the pent waterfloods lash, 
Anil the forest trees give out their language austere 
with great age ; 
And there tlieth o'er moor and o'er hill, 
And there heaveth at intervals wide, 
The long sob of nat\ire's great passion, as loath to 
subside, 
Until <piiet drop down oji the fide. 
And mad echo hath moaned herBclf etilL 

Lo 1 or ever I was 'ware, 
In the silence of the air. 



842 .4 LILY AND A LUTE. 

Through ray heart's wide-open door, 
Music floated fortli once more, 
Floated to the world's dark rim, 
And looked over with a hymn ; 
Tlien came home with tlutings fine. 
And discoursed in tones divine 
Of a certain grief of n\ine ; 
And went downward and went in, 
Glimpses of my soul to win, 
And discovered such a deep 
That I could not choose but weep, 
For it lay, a iar.d-locked sea, 
Fathomless anrl dim to me. 
O the song ! It came and went, 
Went and came. 



I have not learned 
Half tlie lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water boomiisg in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from un revealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue. 
Sweetly talked and deftly snug. 
While the meaning is half sealed ; 
May be like it. You have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the namins: of such song? 
No ; a name would do it wrong. 
You liave heard it in the night, 
In the dro])]. '.ng rain's desjiite, 
In the midnight darkness deep, 
When the childien were asleep, 
And the ^^\l'e — no, let thnt be ; 
Sun asleep I She knows right well 
"What the song to you and me, 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 
She hath heard its faultless flow, 
Where the roots of music grow 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 849 

While I lititoned, like young birds, 
Hints were fliitterino- ; nlmost words, — 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; — 
Everything had changed its name. 

Sorrow was a sliip, I found, 
Wrecked with them that in her are, 
On an island ric-hci' far 
Thau the port where they were bound. 
Fear was i)ut the awful i)oom 
Of the old great bell of doom, 
Tollinj!', far from earthly air, 
For all worlds to go to prayer. 
Pain, that to us mortal clings, 
]>ut the pushing of our wings, 
That we have no use for yet. 
And the uprooting of our feet 
From the soil wliere they are set, 
And tho land we reckon sweet. 
Love in growth, the grand deceit 
Whereby men the perfect greet ; 
Love in wane, the blessing sent 
To be (howsoe'er it went ) 
Nevermore with earth content. 

O, full sweet, and O, full high. 
Ran that music up the sky ; 
But I cannot sing it you, 
More than I can make; you view, 
With my paintings labial, 
Sitting up in awful row. 
White old men majestical, 
IMounlains, in their gowns of snow 
Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 
Looking over sjx'ckled skies, 
See them now. About their knees. 
Half in haj;e, there stands at ease 
A great army of green hills. 
Some bareheaded ; and, behold. 
Small green mosses creep on some. 



844 A LILY AND A LUTE. 

Tliose he mighty forests old ; 
And white nviilaiK lies come 
Tlirou^ii yon rents, wheienow distillfi 
Sheeny silvei', poiirino; down 
To a tune of old renown, 
Ciittintj: iinrrow iiatiiw;iys iLrough 
Gentian belts of airy blue, 
To a zone where slarwort blows, 
And \o\Vif reaches of the rose. 

So, that haze all left bcliind, 
Down the che tniit forests wind, 
I*ast yon jagged s|)ires, where yet 
Foot of man was never set ; 
I'ast a castle yawning wide, 
With a great lircach in its side. 
To a ncst-Iike valley, where, 
Like a sparrow's egg in hue, 
Lie tWH) lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-raaid's hair. 

What l)cside ? The world beside I 
Drawing down and down to greet 
Cottage cinsteis at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastures all aglow 
(Men and women mowing go 
tip and down them) ; also soft 
Floating of the film aloft, 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Is this toid ? It is not told. 
Where's the danger ? where's the cold 
Slippery danger up the steep ? 
Where yon sliadow fallen asleep ? 
Chirping bird and tumblir.g spray, 
Ijcjht, work, laughter, scent of hay, 
Peace, and echo, where are they ? 

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold r 
Memory must their grace unfold 



CLAD YS AND II Eli ISLAllD, 848 

Silentlv ; an.! tliat high song 
Of Uio iK-art, iL <U)tl» l»eluiig 
To ll>e heanrs. Noi a whit, 
TlioMgli a chid" iiuisicMJin htard, 
Could he iiiakL- a luiif fur it. 

TIioM'ih a hit(; full deflly strung, 
And tli'< swiiL'tcsl liird (.'Vr sung, 
O.ul.l have tried it,— O, \\w hito 
For lliat wondrous song wure mule, 
An I lhel)ir.l would do her part, 
Falter, fail, aiul l>rc"ak her heart,— 
Break her lieart, and furl her wnigs, 
On the unexpresbive strings. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

(On the Admntajes of the Poetlcnl 7e.:'pb-a>nent) 

AN IMPEIIFECT FADLE AVITK A DOUUTFUL MOKAL. 

O HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her, 
For Gladys saw the islu'id. 

It -was lhu£ 
They gave a d w for pleasure in the school 
\Vlic.re Gladys taught ; and all the other g-.ris 
AVure taken out.tf. picnic in a wood. 
r,;it it was said, " W^ 'think it were not well 
That little Gla<lys shoul-l acquire a taste 
For pleisure, going about, liud needless change. 
It would not suit her station . ciiseouient 
Mi'dit eonij of it ; and all her duties now 
Sli^does sopleisantly, that we were best 
To keep her humble." So they said to her, 
"Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
Look, you are free ; j^ou need not sit at work: 
No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach 
Among the visitors." 



^46 ClADYS A. YD HER t SLA bib. 

Then Gladys blushed 
For joy, and thanked them. What ! a holiday, 
A whole one, for herse'lf ! How good, how kind ! 
W^ilh that, the marsluded carriages drove off ; 
And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach — 
The children with their wooden spades, the band 
That ))hiyed for lovers, and the sunny stir 
Of cheerftd life and leisure — to the ^ocks, 
For these she wanted most, and there was time 
To mark them , how like ruined organs prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant f.uted pipes. 
And let the great white-crested reckless wave 
Beat out their booming melody. 

The sea 
Was filled wath light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
'J'he breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
As playing at some rough and dangerous game, 
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, 
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, . 
And tossed the fishing-boats. Then Gladys laughed 
And said, " O happy tide, to be so lost 
In sunshine, that one dare not look at it ; 
And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm ; 
And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, 
That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange. 
That in remembrance though I lay them up. 
They are forever, when I come to them, 
Better than I had thought. O, something yet 
I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least 
This picture is imprinted ; thus and thus. 
The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, 
* Layer on layer.' And I look — up — up— • 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
They cut into their ethei" — brown, and cleai 
And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, 
To keep,' retire ; but shortly coine again, 
And they confound me with a gloi-ious changfe. 
The. low sun out of rain-clouds stares at tbem ; 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 84T 

They redden, and their edges drip with — what? 
I know not, but 'tis red. It leaves no stain, 
For the next morning they stand u{) like ghosts' 
In a sea-shroud, and fifty thousand mews 
Sit there, in long white files, and chatter -orv 
Like sillv school-girls in their silliest mood 

" There is the bowlder where Ave always turn. 

O, I have longed to pass it ; now I will. 

What would THEY say ? for one must slip and spring ; 

' Young ladies ! Gladys ! I am sliocked. My dears, 

Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 

Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have looked 

Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are 1 — - 

* What will become of you, if all your life 

You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 

And everywhere, instead of at your feet, 

And where they carry ! ' Ah, well, I know 

It is a pity," Gladys said ; " but then 

We cannot all be wise : happy for me 

That other people are. 

" And yet I wish, — 
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
Come to me, — I do wish that they would come 
When they are wanted !- when 1 teach the suraa 
On rainy days, and when the practicing 
I count to, and the din goes on and on, 
Still the same tune and still the same mistake. 
Then I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
' Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
How serious all my duties look to me, 
And how my heart hushed down and shaded lies, 
Just like the sea, when low, convenient clouds 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last ? Perhaps, that very day. 
The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 
And I am so delighted with this world. 



848 GLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 

That stidtleiilv Ims orown, bcinix new wasliod, 

"o such n sinirmo-, c can, and (liankful world, 

AikI with a tiMKk'i- face sliiiiinu; (lirougli tears, 

Looks ii|i into llie sometime Ii)\vei-ing tsk}-. 

That lias beett angry, but is recunciled, 

And just fori;i\ing her, that I, — that I, — 

O, I forget myself : what matters how I 

iVnd then I hear (but always kindly said) 

Some words that pain me so, — Imt jtist, but true : 

' For if your place in this establishment 

Be but snboidinate, and if your birth 

Be lowly, it the more behooves — Well, Avell, 

No more. We see that you are sorry,' Yes I 

I am always sorry tiikn ; but now, — (), now, 

Here is a bight more beautiful than all." 



" And did they scold her, then, my ])ret'.j one? 
And did she want to be as wise as they, — 
'J'o bear a buckleied heart and |)riggish mind? 
Ay, you may crow ; she ilid ! but no, no, no, 
The night-lime will iu)t let her ; all the stars 
Say nay to that ; the old sea laughs at her. 
Why, (rladys is a child ; she has not skill 
To shut herself within her own small cell, 
And build (he door ujv, and to s^y, ' Poor ine I 
I am a prisoner ;' then to take hewn stones, 
And, having built the windows up, to say, 
' (), it is dark ! thei"e is no sunshine here ; 
There never has been.' " 

Strange ! how very strange.' 
'A woman jiassiiig Gladys with a babe, 
To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and |>idled her curls, 
And never looked at (vladys, never (Mice. 
"A simple child," she added, and went b\', 
" To want to change her great i-r for their less ; 
But Gladys shall not do if, no, net slie ; 
Wc love her — don't we ? — far too well for that-" 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAXD. 849 

Fheti 'Jladys, iluslu-il with slr.xr:io iuid kccMi surpn'so 

" iiiow could slic! liC! so ii>';ir, \\\\\ I iiut, know ? 

And liavo I apokt'ii out my tlioiii^lil jiloud ? 

I iniHt li:ivo done, for^(!Lt,ini^. 1l is wtll 

Sho walks so lust, lor 1 iuu liiingi'y now. 

And here is water canterin-^- down the cliff, 

And lioru a sliell to catcii it with, and here 

Tl»e roiiml phunp hiins they i^.ive inr^, and the fruit 

Now slio is jjjoUv! hi'liiiid the rock. (), rare 

To bo alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 

Ifiipaciked her litth; basket, ate and drank, 

Then pushed her hands into (he warm dry sand 

And thoui^ht the earth was iiappy, and she too 

Was goiu',; round with it in happiness, 

'J'hat iioliday. " What was it timt sIk^ said ? " 

Quoth (lladys, co^^itatiri"^ ; "they were kind, 

TIm! words that woman spoke, Siie does not know I 

* Her greater for their less,' — it makes nu^ hmgh, — 

liut yet," siglied (iladys, " thougii it must l>e good 

To look and to admire, on(; should not wish 

To st(\al rnKiK virtues, and to put thenj on, 

liike t'(\athers from anotlier wing ; beside, 

That calm, and that grave (M)usciousneKs ol" worri), 

When all is said, would little suit with me, 

Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, 

Though they bo good and huml)le, ouc; should r.iin*.' 

How they are reared, or some will go astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and Abel l)otli 

Were only ohho removcul from innocence. 

Why did I envy them ?" That was not good ; 

Yet it began with my humility." 

Hut as she spake, lo, Gladys rais.'d her eyes, 

And right before her, on the horizon's ('.^V^'^'^ 

Bi'hold, an island ! First, she looked away 

Along the soli(l rocks and steadfast nhorb, 

For she was all am.i/,ed, beliijving not, 

And th "11 sh(i look;(d again, and tlnu't! again 

15i'hold, an island ! And the tide had turned 

The m Iky sea had gi)L a purph^ rim. 

And from the rira that mountain island rose^ 



850 GLADYS AMD HEk ISLAND. 

Purple, with two higli peaks, the northern peak 

The lii<;her, and with fell and -precipice, 

It run down oteeply to the water's brink; 

But all the Bouthern line was long and soft, 

Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, 

Covered with forest or with sward. But, look ! 

The sun was on the island ; and he showed 

On either peak a dazzling c.ip of snow. 

Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, "Indeed, 

Indeed it is an island : how is this, 

I never saw it till this fortunate 

Rare lioliday ?" And while she strained her e)C8, 

She thought that it began to fade ; but not 

To chantre as clouds do, only to withdraw 

And melt into its azui'e ; and at last, 

Little by little, from her hungry licart, 

That longed to draw things marvelous to itself, 

And yearned towards the riches and the great 

Abundance of the beauty God hath made, 

It passed away. Tears started in her eyes. 

And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone ■ 

The careless sea had quite forgotten it, 

And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys we])t, but there Avas luxury 

In her self-pity, v\^hile she softly sobbed, 

"O, what a little while ! I am afraid 

I shall foro-et that purple mountain isle. 

The lovely liollows atween her snow-eiad peaks, 

The grace of her upheaval where she lay 

Well up against the open, O, my heart, 

Now I remember how this holiday 

Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 

Not fo<l ; and only in the noonday walk 

Let to look silently at what it wants. 

Without the power to wait or pause awhile. 

And understMud ajid draw within itself 

The ricljiiess of the earth. A holiday ! 

IIow few I have ! I spend the silent time 

At work, while ajl thkik juipils are gone home^ 



GLADYS AMD HER ISLAND. 6tH 

Ai;J feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 

They are great planets, I a little orb ; 

My little orbit far within their own 

Turns, and a])i)ro;iche8 not. But yet, the more 

1 am alone when those I teach return ; 

For they, as planets of some other sun, 

Not mine, have paths that can but meet my rinij 

Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am ! 

I have not got laid up in tliis blank heart 

Any indulgent kisses given me 

Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet, 

Because my childhood was itself a good 

Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, 

And comforting. An oiphan-school at best 

Is a cold mother in the winter time 

('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came) 

An unregardf ul mother in the spring. 

" Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thougiit on it 
Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, 
To that one tree, the only one we saw 
From April, — if the cowslips were in bloom 
So early ; or, if not, from opening May 
Even to September. Then there came the feasf 
At Ep])ing. If it raineil that day, it rained 
For a whole year to us ; we could not think 
Of fields and hawthorn licdges, and the leaves 
Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. 

" Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time 
I know the scent of bean-field ; I have heard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 

The woman ! she came round the rock agam 

"W'th her fair baby, and she sat her down 

By Gladys, murmurinir, " Who forbade the grass 

To grow by visitations of the dew ? 

Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 



98i GLAD YS AKD HER ISLAND. 

' Thon slialt not wait for anc;el visitors 

To trouble thy still water?' Must we bi(le 

At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us 

On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breath'* 

Without ? O, we shall draw to us the air 

That limes and mystery feed on. This shall lay 

Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, 

And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, 

l.^'.ill of sweet language as a lover's mouth, 

Delivering of a tune to make her youth 

More beautiful thau wheat when it is green. 

•• What else ? — (O, none shall envy her !) The rain 

And the wild weather will be most her own, 

And talk with her o' nights ; and if the winds 

/lave seen aught \\ onders, they will tell it her 

h^ a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from fai 

tier ears being keen, the lowing and the mad, 

Masterful tramping of the bison herds, 

Tearing down headlong with iheir blo()d>;hot eyes, 

In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and creak 

Of ice-fiocs in the frozen sea, the cry 

Of the white benrs, all in a dim blue world 

Muiubliug their meals by twilight ; or the rock 

And majesty of motion, when theii heads 

Primeval trees toss in a sumiy storm. 

And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. 

No holid.iys," quoth she ; "dro|i, drop, O, drop. 

Thou tired skylark, and go up no more ; 

You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, 

Nor ijive out your good smell. She will not look , 

No, Gl 'dys cannot draw your sweetness in, 

For lack of holidays" So Ghdys thouglit, 

" A most strange womnn, nnd she talks cf me.'* 

With that, a girl ran np : "Mother," she said, 

"Come out of this brown b'ght, I pray you now, 

It suK'lls of fa ries." Gia<lys thereon tiiought, 

•* The mother will not speak to me, perhaps 

The daughter may," and nsk'd her courteously, 

■' What do the fairies smjll of ? " But the girl 



GLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 35*) 

With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know-*^ 
" Not 1," said Gladys ; then she answered lier, 
"'Something like buttercups. But, mother, comfl 
And whisper up a porpoise from the loam, 
Because 1 want to ride." 

Full slowly, then, 
The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes 
Upon her little child. " You freakish maid," 
Said she, " now mark me, if I call you one, 
You shall not scold uurmake him take you far,*^ 

** I only want — you know-I only want," 
The girl replied — " to go and play awhile 
Upon th« sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
And muttered low, " Mother, is this the girl 
Who saw the island ?" JJlit the mother frovvne(^ 
" When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. 
And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
"J'o hear the answer. " When she wills to go , 
For yomler comes to shore the ferry-boat.'* 
Then (-Jladys turned to look, and even so 
It was ; a ferry-boat, and far away 
Keared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
Of her loved island. 

Then she raised her arras. 
And ran toward the hoat, crying out, " U rare. 
The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she spr^iiig on board. 
And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; 
And this one took the helm, and that let go 
The sail, and off they Haw, and furrowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sol)bing, snake-lik3 tail <»f creamy foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys looked. 
Were leaving it to leeward. A'mI the mai«l 
Whistled % wiad to come and rock the craft. 



354 GLADYS AXD II EH ISLAND, 

And would be leaning down her Lead to mew 

At cat-fi^<h, then Hit out into her hip 

And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 

She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own 

liebuked her in good English, after cried, 

*'Luff, lulf, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff,* 

Sobbed the fair mischief ; "you are cross to me." 

•' For shame 1 " the mother shrieked ; " lufl^, lutf, \\\\ 

dear ; 
Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, 
And presently, a dolphui bouncing np, • 
She sprang upon his slippery back, — "Farewell," 
She laughed, was off, and all the sea giew calm. 

Then Gladys was much happier, and was ware 

In the smooth weather that this woman talked 

Like one in sl.-e}), and murmured certain tlioughtf 

Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. 

She nodded, " Yes, the girl is going now 

To her own island. Gladys pooi-? Kot she I 

Who thinks so? Once I met a man in Avhite, 

Who said to me, 'TIk' thing that might have beej 

Is called, and questioned why it hath not been ; 

And can it give good reason, it is set 

Beside the actual, and reckoned in 

To fdl the empty gai)S of life.' Ah, so 

Tu(; possible stands by us ever fresh, 

Fairer than aught which any life hath owned. 

And makes divine amends. Now this was set 

Apart from kin, and not ordained a home ; 

An equal ; — and not suffered to fencr in 

A little plot of earthly good, and say, 

*Tis mine ; but in bereavement of the part, 

O, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 

The grandeur of the story, not to feel 

Satiate with good possessed, but evermore 

A healthful hunger for the great idea, 

The beauty and the blessedness of lite. 

1k», now, the shadow 1 " quoth she, breaking ofl^ 



T 



GLADYS A. YD HER ISLAND. 8fit 

** We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turh. 
And, O, the nioiintain with tlie j»iir])le ])oaliS 
Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, 
And tliey were in it : and she saw the snow. 
And (imler tliat the r.-^cks, and nnder that 
The pines, and then the ])asturage ; and s.aw 
NuiniToiis dips, and undulations '-are, 
Ruuniii'^ down seawai'd, all astir with lithe 
Lon'4 canes, ami lofty I'e.ithers ; for the palras 
And sjiice trees of the south, nay, every growth. 
Meets in that island. 

So that woman rac 
Tlie boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot 
Thereon, "^fhen all at ouco much laughter rose j 
:[nviaciljle folks set up exultant shouts, 
"It all belongs to Gladys ;" and she ran 
And liid herselt among the nearest treea 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So she looked round 
And saw that she was in a banyan grove, 
Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass, 
A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 
Or reaching out their jeweled necks, where high 
They sat in rows along the i)()ugl)s. No tree 
Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, 
But it was caught in scarlet cups, and p<nu-cd 
From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 
Lower on azure stars. The air was stiil, 
As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep. 
And Gladys was the only thing that moved, 
Kxct'pting — no, they were not birds — what then? 
Glorilied rainbows with a living soul ? 
While they i)assed thi'ough a sunbeam they were seen 
Not otherwliere, but they were jnx'scnt yet 
In shade. They wei"C at work, ]iomegranate fruit 
That lay about removing, — purjile grapes, 
That clustered in the path, clearing aside. 
Through a small spot of light would pass and go 



85d GLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 

The glorious happy mouth and two fair ryes 

Of soniewliat lliat made rust linn^swlifio it, W'.'ut ; 

But vvIk'ii a beatu would strike the gi'ouiid siieer down, 

Behold thi'TU ! they had wiugs^ and they would pasi 

One after otiier with tlie tiheeny fans, 

Bearing them blowly, that tlieir hues were seen. 

Tender as russet crinisin dropt on snows, 

Orwiiero tliey turned flashing with gold and dashed 

Willi pinj)le glooms. And they had feet, but these 

Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 

Not to disturb tl)e waiting (jiiietiiess ; 

Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside tlieir dams } 

Nor the fair leopnrd, witii lier sleek paws laid 

Aeross her little drowsy cubs ; nor sw ans. 

That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool ; 

Nor rosy cranes, all sliind»eiing in the reeds, 

With heads beneatli tlu'ir wings. For this, you know. 

Was Ellen. She was passing through the trees 

That made a ring al;uut it, and she cauuht 

A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 

Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 

To tell that tale. Nor wind was let to blow, 

And all the doves were biddin to hi>!d tlieii jteace. 

Why? One was working in a valley luar, 

And none might look that way. It was understood 

'J'liat He had ne;irly ended that II is work ; 

For two shapes met, and one to other spake. 

Accosting him with, " Prince, what woikclh Tie?" 

Who whispi'red, " Lo ! \\v fasliiomtli retl clay." 

Aiul .vM at oiu-e a little trrmbling stir 

Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke. 

And laitl its hi ad down, listening. It was known 

Then that the work was done ; the new-made king 

Had risen, and set his feel u]»on his realm. 

And it acknowledged him. 

But in her path 
Cane some one that withstood her, and he said. 
" What dost thou here ? " Then she <1 d turn and flee 
Among those cohu-ed spirits, through the grove, 



CLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 8W 

Tromliling for baste ; it w.is not ■well with her 
I'ii! she came f'orili of those thick banyan trees, 
Ami set her feet upon the common grass. 
And felt tho common wind. 

Yet once beyond, 
She could not choose but cast a backward c;lance. 
The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, 
And means of entering were not evident, — 
The g;i]) iiad closed. JJut Gladys laughed f or joj 
She said, " Ilemotenesa and a multitude 
Of years are counted nothing liei"e. liehold, 
I'o day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms 
In my own island." 

And she wandered on. 
Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, 
And all the earth was sandy where she walked, — 
Sandy and dry, — strewed with papyrus-leaves. 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
Of nuinimies (for perhaps it was the way 
That lea<ls to dead old Kgypt), an<l withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharj) and clear 
The hot prone pillars, and the cai'ven plinths, — 
Stone lotos cups, with petals dip))e(l in sand, 
And wicked gods, and s|)hinx('s bland, who sat 
And stniied upon the ruin. O, how still I 
Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear 
Stare of an unveiled sky. The di-y stiff leaves 
Of palm-trees never rustled, and tlie soul 
Of thai, dead an<;ientry was itself dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand. 
When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo I 
It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels. 
Which erst had carried to their pagan praj^ers 
The brown old IMiaraohs ; for the ruts led on 
To a gi'eat clilf, that either was a cliff 
Or sonio dread shrine in ruins, — partly reared 
III front of tliat same cliiV, and partly liewn 
Or excavate within its heart, (ireat heaps 
Of sand and atones on either side there la/ { 



dftS GLADYS AND IIER ISLAND. 

An»l, as tlio girl <li-o\v on, rose out from each, 
Ah from a glioslly kciiiicl, gods uitblest, 
Dog-lu';ul('(l, and bcliliKl tliem winged things 
Like angels ; and this carvcn multitudo 
Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. 

At last, t'lo clifT, — and in the cliff a door 
Yawning ; and nho looked in, as down the throat 
Of some stni).;n(lous giani, and helield 
No iloor, but Avide, "worn llights of stejis, that led 
Into a dimness. Wiieii tho eyes conld bear 
That change to gloom, slio saw, ilight after flight 
Flight after Ilight, the worn, long stair go down, 
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter ; also she went down 
Till it was dark, and yet again Avent down, 
Till, gazing npwai'd at tliat yawning <loor, 
It seemed no lai'ger, in its heiglit remote, 
Than a pin's head. V>\\\, while, irresolute, 
She donbted of th<> end, yel farther down 
A slendi'r ray of l.iniplight fell away 
Along the stair, as from a door ajar : 
'l\) this again she felt her Avay, and stepped 
A<lown the hoHow stair, and reached tlie light; 
Hut fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
Entrance, and listened. Ay I 'twas even so, — 
A sigli ; the bi-eathing as of one who sle])t 
Aud was disturbed. So sho drew back awhile, 
And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
Waned, faded, saidc ; and as she came within — 
Hark, dark ! A spirit was it, an^l aslee[)? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay. 'I'here hung 
A cresset from the root, and thence nppe;ired 
A nickering speck of light, and ilisappcared ; 
Then droi)j)ed along the iloor its ellish tlakes, 
'l^hat. fell on sonu' one ri'sling, in the glooni, — 
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, the* a shaj>e 
That loonu'd. It was a hi'ifer, ny, and w liite, 
Breathing and languid through i»ro onged repose 



GLAD YS AND HER I Si. AND. 869 

Was it a heifer? nil the marble floor 
\Va.s milk-white also, ami ilio cresset paled, 
And slraitfht their wliileiiess grew confused and 
mixed. 

I?iit when the cresset, fal<ini; lieart, liloor.ied oiit,-- 
Tlie whiteness, — and asleep a^rain ! l)ut now 
It was a woman, rohed, and with a ("aeo 
Lovely and dim. And (JIailys whiles she gazed 
Murmured, " () tirrihie ! I am afraid 
To breathe atnong thesci intermil tcnl lives, 
'J'iiat fluctuate in mystic solituiie, 
And change anil fade. TjO ! where the goddess sits 
Dri-aming on hei- dim throne ; a crescent moon 
Slie wears upon her forehead. Ah 1 her frown 
Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 
What dost thou iiold, Isis, to thy cold breast? 
A baby god with linger on his lips, 
Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway ? 
Thy son. Hush, hush ; Im knoweth all the lore 
And s()r(!(^ry of old Kgypt ; but his moulh 
lie shuts ; the secret Khali be lost with him. 
He will not tell." 

The woman coming down I 
"(^liild, what art doing ])er(!i"' the woman said ; 
" What wilt thou of Daiiu; Isis am) her bairn r"* 
(/1y, <n/, me, see thee hrculliiiKj in I In/ s/ir<>u</, — 
77i// pretfi/ shroHil, aU frilled <tn.(l farhelowed.) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
I maik a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
Of paitit(!il (!o(Tcrs lllls it. What if we, 
Passinu', should slii*, and crash int<j their midst,— 
lireak tlu^ frail aiu'ientry, and snu)lhere(l Ii(^, 
TumI)I('d among the i-ibs of <pu'eiis and kings, 
And all the gear they took to bed with them 1 
Horrible! ict us hence." 

A.rid r.hidys said, 
" O, they are rough to mount, those stairs ;" but sh* 
Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight 



860 CLAD YS AND HER ISLAND, 

Shot like a meteor with ht;r. "There," snid B*ho ; 

"The liglit is sweet wlien ( ne has smelled of graven 

D(/wn in unholy heathen gh)«)m ; farewell." 

She pointed to a gateway, slronjj and high, 

Ri'ored of licwn stones ; but, look I in lieu of gat^ 

There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, 

And on the lintel there were writ these words : 

" llo, every one that Cometh, I divide 

What hatli been from what might be, and tbe line 

Ilangeth before thee as a s|)i<ler's web ; 

Yet, wouldst thou enter, thou must break llio line. 

Or else forbear the iiili." 

The maiden said, 
" So, cobweb, I will brealc thee." And she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther side, 
And waded tiirongh the bracken round their bolls, 
Until she saw the open, and drew on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it "was mixed 
With pines and hcatliery places wild and fresh. 
Here she put up a creature, tliat ran on 
Before her, crying, " Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
S.it up, and stared at her with elfish eyes. 
Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, 
'J'he wizard that woiined somewhere underground. 
With other talk enough to make one fear 
To walk in lonely ])l:ices. After jiassed 
A man-at-arms, William of Deloiaiiie ; 
He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," 
Q loth he, " I know, but how it matters not ;" 
Then crossed himself, and muttend of a clap 
Of thunder, and a sha|)e in Auiice gray, 
But still it mouthed at hini, and whimpered, "Tint, 
Tiut,tint." "'J'heie shall bcAvild work some day soon," 
Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : lie will come, 
Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, 
And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." 

Then Gladys was so frightened, that sbe ran. 
And got away, towards a grassy down. 



CLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 861 

Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy 

To ten<l lluii. 'Tuas I he boy who uet;rs iLat herb 

Called hcart's-ease in his boyoiM, and he Kang 

S) sweetly to his Hock, tliat she stole on 

Nearer to listen. " O Content, Content, 

(iive me," sang he, "thy tender eom])iniy. 

I feed my flock among the nijrtles ; all 

My lambs are twins, and they Iiave laid them dow 

Along the slopes of Ben^lah. Come, fair love, 

From the other side the liver, wheie tiieir harps 

Thou hast been ludping them to tnne. O come, 

Anil pituh thy tent by mine ; let me behold 

Thy mouth, — that even in slumber talks of jieace, 

Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 

Tdl she had rested ; ih^n did ask the boy, 

For it was afternoon, and she was fain 

To reach the shore, " VVhicii is the path, I pray, 

That leads one to the water?" Hut he uaid, 

" Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 

The pith th It leads one to the golden gate 

Across the river." So she wandered on ; 

And presently her feet grew cool, the gi'ass 

Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. 

The air was full of voices, and the scint 

Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts ; 

For sliH was on the slopes of a goodly mount, 

And reared in such a sort that it looked down 

Into the deepest valleys, darkest glad»'S, 

And richest plains c' the island. It was set 

Midway between the snows majestical 

And a wide level, such as men would choose 

For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 

" It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 

Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 

The calling of an unseen multitude 

I'o some upon the m )Mntain, " Give ns more ;" 

And others said, " We are tired of this old world ! 

Make it look new again." Then there were t>ome 



863 CLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 

WIjo answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
From that high niuuntuin, as the living do) ; 
But others wung desponding, " We have kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From tiie unreasoning crowd." 

Tlien words came up : 
" There was a time, you poets, was a time 
When all the poetry was ours, and made 
By some who climbed the mountain from our midst, 
We loved it then, we sang it- in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'iieuth her dusky wing, 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
That many of us think scorn of honest ti'ado, 
And take no pride in our own shops ; who care 
Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be ; who deppise 
Their woik, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
Dull, and degrade them." 

Then did Gladys smile ; 
"Heroes !" quoth she ; " yet, now 1 think on it, 
There was the jolly goldsmiih, brave Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear, 
'J'ankard and ( harger, ami a-muitcring low, 
•London is thirsty' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
* 'Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give 
The woitli of this, and many such as this 
To brintj it water.* 



'o 



" Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him. 
Leaning upon the brid<2^(' on summer eves, 
Alter \\\A sh()|» was clos'-'d : n still, grave man, 
With muiuucholy eyes. * While these are hale,' 



GLADYS AND HBK ISLAND. 863 

He saitli, when he looks down ancl marks the crowd 
Cheerly working ; where the river marge 
Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 
Swarm, and the cranes swing in witii merchandise, — • 

• While these are liale, 'lis well, '(is very well. 

But, O good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick,— 
I t'eir me. Lord, this excellent workmanship 
Of Thine is counteci for a cumbrance then. 
Ay, ay, my hearties ! many a man of you, 
Sii uck down, or maimed, or fevere<l, shi'inks away. 
And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid. 
Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' 
Well, we have heard the rest. 

"Ah, -next I think 
Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart 
To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he 
(The navigitor Knox to his manful son), 
*' I sit a 'Mptive from the ship detained ; 
This heathenry doth let thee visit her. 
R'member, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 
'J'o ransom thy poor father, thc}'^ are free 
As yet, the maiiners ; have wives at home. 
As I h ive ; ay, and liberty is sweet 
To all men. For the sh.ip, she is not ours, 
Therefore, "iK'secch thee, son, lay on the mate 
Tliis my command, to leave me, mid set sail. 
As for thyself — ''Good father,' saith the son; 

* I will not, father, ask your blessing now 
Because, f<>r fair, or cI c for evil, faie, 

We two shall meet again.' And solhey dm. 

The dusky men, peeling ofT cinnamon, 

And beating tint meg clusters fic^m the tree, 

Ransom and bribe conf cmn'Hl. The good t.bip sailed,— 

The son r 'turned to share his father's cell. 



"O, there arc many such. Would I iiad wit 
Their worth to eitig I " \\'i;h that, she tnrned hei 
feet. 



m CLAb YS AMD HMR ISLAND, 

" I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk 
Around this hill ParnasMis." And, behold, 
iV piteouH siglit, — an old, hiind, prayheard king 
,ii.ed hy a fool wiih hells. Now this was loved 
(Jf the crowd below the hill ; and when he ealled 
For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, 
And j)lained on his unkind daughters, tbey wcve 

known 
To say, that if the best gold and gear 
Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made 

kind 
The hard heaits a\ hieh liari brolcen his crewhile, 
Tlu'y would have gladly jiaid it IVom their blore, 
JNIany times over. U'hat is done is done, 
No help. The ruined majesty passed en. 
And, look you ! one who met her as sh'j walked 
Showed her a mountain nymph love'yas light. 
Her name (iMione ; and slie mourned aiul mourned, 
*' O JMother Ma," and tihe could not ceaao. 
No nor be oomlorted. 

And after this, 
Soon there came T>y, arrayeil in Norman cap 
And kirlle, an Arcadian villager, 
AVho said, " i pray you, have yon ehnnced to meet 
C^ne Galiri"! V" and she siulied ; but Gladys look 
Ami kissed her haiul : she could not answer her, 
Because she guessed the cud. 

With that it drew 
To ovcnincf : and as Gladys wandered on 
In the calm weather, bIio beheld the w avc, 
And slie ran down to set her I'eet again 
On the sea margin, which was co\iicd thick 
"With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red 
As w iiio. 'I'he water play(<] among baie ribs 
Of many wrecks, that lay hali'-bni'ii'd there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with marveling mute, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 8C5 

She ji^azcd and gazed into lier sea-bluo eyes, 
Foi- in I hem heained the uiilaiiglil ecstasy 
or chlldliood, that Uvea ou ihouyh youth be eoTr»a, 
And love just born. 

She could not choose but name her sliipwrecke'5 

prince, 
All blushing. She told Gladys many things 
That are not in the story, — tilings, in south, 
That Piospero her lather knew. But now 
' Twas evening, and the sun dropped ; purple stripes 
In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 
Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more, 
•J he freakish tiling to take fair Ghidys lionie 
She showed her, but as Gladys took the helm : 
" Peace, peace 1 " she said ; " be good : you shali no' 

steer, 
For I am your liege lady." Then stie pang 
The sweetest song she knew all the way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

" Fare you well. 
My country, my own kingdom," then she said, 
" Till 1 go visit you again, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with whom shi 

dwelt, — 
Thecarri.iges were coming. Hastening up, 
S!ia WIS in time to meet them at the door, 
And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 
And some were cross and shivered, and her dame» 
Were weary and right hard to please ; but she 
Felt like ;i beggar suddenly emlowed 
With a warm cloak to 'feiid her from the cold. 
« For, come what will," Bhoduid, "1 had to-day^ 
There is an Lslaud-" 



3C6 CLAD YS AND HER ISLAND. 



THE MORAL. 

What 18 the moral ? Let us think awhile, 
Takinjf the editorial We to help. 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes, 
We always read, when any table ends, 
" Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
What do you think of this : " Hence wo may learn 
That dolphins swim about the coast of Whales, 
And Admiralty maps should now be drawn 
By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, 
And tliey can spy out islands." Will that do? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 
(We know we have a happy knack that way. 
We liave observed, moreover, that 5'oung men 
Are fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 
Especially of that meandering kind 
Which, -winding on so sweetly, treats of all 
They ought to be and do and think and wear, 
As one may say, from creeds to comforters. 
Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 
So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein : 
That is the thing ; but how to manage it ? 
*' Hence we may learn,'''' if we be so inclined, 
That life goes best with those who take it best ; 
That wit can spin from work a golden robe 
To (jueen it in ; that Avho can paint at will 
A private picture-gallery, should not ciy^ 
For sliillings that will let him in to look 
At some by others painted. Furthermore, 
Hence we may learn, you poets — {and we count 
For 23oets all who eoer fdt that such 
Thei/ were, and all xoJio serreth/ have Taiown 
That such they could be ; ay, moreover y alt 
Who wind the robes ofideali^ 



GLADYS AiVD HER ISLAND. 367 

About the bareness of their lives, and hang 

Comfortinrj curtains, knit offanqfs yarn, 

Niiihtly betwixt them and the frost y taorld), — 

Hence we may learn, yon poets, tliat of all 

We should be most content. Tlie eartli is given 

To ns : we reign by virtue of a sense 

Which lets us hear the rliythm of that old verse. 

The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. 

llunianity is given to us : we reign 

]>y virtue of a sense which lets ns in 

To know its troubles ere they have been told, 

And take them home and lull them into rest 

With mournfulest music. Time is given to us, — 

Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, heside 

Have seen it well, have walked this cm])ty world 

When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 

Have marked the spurtin'g of their flamy crowns ? 

• 

Have not we seen the tabei-nacle pitched, 
And peered between the linen curtains, blue, 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there. 
And, frighted, have not dared to look again? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
A chest that miglrt have held the manna pot, 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
Over the edge of Biitain, while the fleet 
df Caesar loomed and neared ; then, afterwards, 
We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
In ail his bravery to the wedding. 

This, 
However, counts for nothing to the grace 
AVe wot of in time future : — therefore add, 
And afterwards have done : " Jlenceice may learn* 
"^rhat though it be a grand and comely thing 
To be unhappy — (and we think it is. 
Because so many grand and clever folk 
Have found out reasons for unhappiness, 
And talked about unccmfortaVjle things,— 



668 SONGS V/ITII PRELUDED 

Low motivop, bores, and sliams, and liollowncsfl, 
Tiio liol!o\vnc'.ss o' tlio world, till wo at last 
IIa\e sc-arcc'ly dared to jninp or stamp, for fear, 
liein<x so liollow, it (should break some day, 
And let us in), — yet, since we are not grand, 
O, not at all, and as for cleverness, 
Tiiat may be or may not be, — it is well 
For us to bo as ]iai)py as we can 1 

Ajifreed ; and with a word to the nobler sex, 
As thus : We pray you earry not your guns 
On the full cock ; we i)ray you set your pride 
In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add, 
And end : For all the rest, hold up your heads 
And mind your English. 



SOIl^GS WITH PRELUDES. 



WEDLOCK 

The Bun was streaming in : T woke, and said, 

" Where rs my wife, — that has been made my wife 

Only this year?" 'J'he casement stood ajar: 

I did but lift my head : The |)ear-tree dropped, 

The great white pear-tree droj)ped with dew from 

leaves 
And blossom, under heavens of happy blua 

My wife had wakened first, .and had gone down 
Into the orchard. All ihe air was calm ; 
AMdil)Ie humming filled it., At the roots 
Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heajts, 
Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag like hills 
Were tossing down their silver messengers. 



UO.VGS WlTII PRELUDES. 869 

Anrl two brown furciijfuc'rs, culled cnokoo-bircls, 
Gave ilic'iii ji'ood answer: all iliings else were mute; 
An idle world l.iy listening to their talk, 
They had it :o iheMiselvts. 



What ails my wife? 
I know not if aiiglit ails her ; though her step 
Tell of a conscious (jiiiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the .iltnond lM)nghs, and bends 
One tliick with bloom to look on it. " O love 1 
A little while llion hast witlnlrawn tltyself, 
At unaware to think iliy thonglits alone : 
How sweet, anil y(!t pathetic to my In art 
'J'he reason. Ah ! ihon art no more thine own. 
]\Iine, mine, O love 1 'I'ears gather 'neath my lids,- 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost libei'iy, 
IJeeause it was so sweet. 'I'liy libei'l}', 
'J'iiat yet, O love, ihoii wouldst not have again. 
No ; all is right. Knt who can give, or bless, 
Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
Sonie pain 't " 

She walks beside flie lily bed, 
And holds apart her gown ; she would not hurt 
'J'he le-if-enfoldi'd buds, t liat have not 1 oked 
Yet on the daylight. ^O, thy locks are brown, — 
Fairest of color-; ! — and a darker brown 
'J'he beautiful, deai", veilc.'d, imtdest eyes. 
A bloom as of l)l;nli ro-ies covei's her 
Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathea 

with her. 
And griceful vigor. Fair and woi.drous soul I 
To tiiiLij r,hat thou art mine J 



My wife cam© Id, 
And moved into the fbamber. As for me, 
I heard, but iay as one that nothing hoars. 
And ^'ei^ued to be asleep. 



ZtO SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



The racing river leaped and sang 
Full blithely in the perfect weather, 

All round the mountain echoes rang, 
For blue and green were glad together. 

This rained out light from every part, 

And that with songs of joy Avas thrilling ; 

But, in the hollow of my heart, 
There ached a place that wanted filling. 

ni. 

Before the road and river meet, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 

I heard a sound of laughter sweet, 
And paused to like it, and to listen, 

TV. 

I heard the chanting waters flow, 

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,- 
Then turned the hedge, and did not know — 

How could I ? — that my time was coming. 



A girl upon the mghest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 

Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 

VI. 

She knew not any need of me, 

Yet me she waited all unweeting ; 

We thought not I had crossed the sea, 
And half the sphere to give her meeting. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 871 

VTI. 

I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moment hud been hours ; 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 

VIII. 

Her fellow-maids in copse and lane, 

Ah ! still, methinks, I hear tlu'm calling r 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain, 
The cushat's coo, the water's falling. 

Bnt now it is a year ap^o, 

But now possession crowns endeavor; 
I took her in my heart, to s^row 

And fill the hollow i>lace forever. 



REGRET. 

O'THAT word Regret ! 

There have been nights and morns when we have 

siijjhed, 
"Let us alone. Regret ! Wc are content 
To throw thee all our p;ist, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is i>atient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
But plaineth on the bed'that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows lium.mize our lace ; 
Tears are the showers that fenilize this world, 
And memory of thin!::s precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 



<7a SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

Tliey arepooy 
That have lost nothing ; ihey are poorer far 
' \\'ho, losinu', liave forgotten ; they most poor 
Olall, who h»se and wish they might forget. 
F.)r life is one, and in its warp and woof 
There runs ". tliread of gold that glitters fair, 
And sometimes in the ))attern shows most sweet 
Where there are somber colors. It is true 
That we have wept. J>iit O ! this thread of gold. 
We would not Iiave it tainish ; let us turn 
Oft a' (1 look baek upon the "wondrous web, 
And when it thineth sometimes we shall know 
That memory is possession. 



Wlien 1 remember something which T had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without^ 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 

Tt mnk^s me sigh to think on it, — but yet 

JVIy days will not be better days, should I forget. 



II. 

When T remember something promised me, 
But which 1 never had, nor can have now, 

Because the promiscr we no more see 

In countries that accord with moi-tal vow; 

When I i-emember this, 1 mourn, — but yet 

J4y happier days are not the days when I forgett 



SOATGS WITH PRELUDES. 87« 



LAMENTATION. 

I READ upon that book. 
Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 

I read upon that book 
How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
(Red Esau's twin), he desolate took 
The 8t'>ne for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
And lo I there was a ladder. Lo ! there hung 
A laddur from the star-place, and it clung 
To the earth : it tied her so to heaven j and O I 

There lluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending things 

That stepped io him wliere ho lay low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
(This feathered brood of heaven), and show 
Small as white flakes in wmter that arc blown 
Together, underneath the great white throne. 

WTien I had shut the book, T said : 
**Now, as for me, my dreams u^ on my bed 

Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Tet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
, And many more : it doth not us beseem, 
Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky ? 
Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on higl» 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 

We have no dream 1 What then ? 
Like wing(^d wayfarers the height they scale 
' (By Him that oifers them they shall prevail) — 
The prayers of m^n. 
But where is found a prayer for me ; 

How should I pray ? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
'Suffer us not, for any pains of death. 
To faU trom Thee.* 



874 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

But O, the pains of life 1 the pains of life I 
'J'hcre is wo comfort now, and naught to win, 
But yet, — 1 will begin." 



" Preserve to nie my wealth,'* I do not say, 

For that is wanted away : 
And much of it was cankered ere it went. 
" I'reserve to me my health," I cannot say. 

For that, tipon a day, 
Went after other delights to banishment. 

n. 

What can I pray ? " Give me f orgetf ulness ? " 

No, I Avould still possess 
Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. 
"Give me again my kindred ?" Nay ; not so. 

Not idle i)rayers. We know 
They that have crossed the river cannot return. 



m. 

I do not pray, " Comfort me I comfort mo ! * 

For how shoidd comfort be? 
O — O that cooing mouth, — that little whitehead \ 
No ; but I pray, " If it be not too late, 

Oj)cu to me the gate. 
That 1 may find my babe when I am dead. 

IV. 

" Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 

When I was happy and free, 
Walking down here in the gladsome light o'the san j 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 

In the road to "^I'liy blest seat, 
And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done," 



SONGS IVITII PRELUDES, 878 



DOMINION. 

When fonnd tlio rose delight in her fair hue? 
Color la nothing to this world ; 'tis I 
That sec it. Farther, I discover soul, 
That trees are nothing to tiieir fellow-trees ; 
It is hut I that love their stateliness, 
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit. 
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step 
Oil the ledges of (his world, for it is mine ; 
But the other world ye wot of shall go too ; 
I will carry it in my bosom. O my world, 
That was not built with j;lay I 

Consider it 
(This outer world wo tread on) as a harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
We learn those airs we shall Ite set to play 
When mortal hours are ended. I.et the wings, 
Man, of thy s])irit move on it as wind, 
And draw "forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
Lie groveling? More is won than e'er was lost : 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy nighty 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
Go up as birds go up that, when they wake. 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

So take Joy home, 
And make a place in thy great heart for her, 
And give her time to grow, and cherish her ; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
Tliere is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned ? 
Th«re is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head. 



878 SONGS WITH PRELUDES 

The lovely world, anci the over-woil(^ aliko^ 
Ring with a song etcino, n Imppy rede, 
"Tur Father loves thee." 



Ton moored mnckerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, 

Or a clustering village stieet 

Foundationleiss built on the seas 



a 

The mariners ply their craft, 
Each BC't in his castle fiail ; 

His care is all for the draught, 
And he dries the rain-beaten saiL 



in. 

For rain came down in the night, 
And thunder muttered full oft, 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 



IV. 

I take the land to my breast, 
In hei' coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best, 
And all that's made is mine. 



V. 

Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip^ 
There yet is a day for me ; 

Nor youth I count for a ship 
That long ago foundered at sea. 



SO}^GS tVITti PR^L VDES. 8W 



VI. 



*Did the lost love die and depait ! 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart. 

And all that was — is yet. 



VIL 



"I grant to the king his reign ; 

Let us yiela him homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, 1 must rule as you. 



VIII. 



" I grant to the wise his meed, 
But his yoke I will not brook, 

For God taught me to read, — 
He lent me the world lor a book." 



FRIEXDSIIIP. 

ON A SITN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SEXT BY HIS 'WIFB 
TO THEIR FRIEND. 

Beautiful eyes — and shall T see no more 

'i'lie living thought when it would leap from them, 

And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids? 

Here was a man familiar with fair heights 

'I'hat poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 

And troubles uf our race deep inroacis made, 

Yet lite was sweet to him ; be ke[)t fiis he:irt 

At home. VVhosaw his wife might well havethought — 

"God lov< s this man. He chose a wife for him — 

Tiie true one ! " O sweet eyes, that seem lo live, 

I know so much of you, tell me the rest I 



878 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 

For small, young children. Is a message here 

That you would fain have sent, but had not time f 

If such there be, I promise, by long love 

And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes 

Of understanding, that I will not fail, 

No, nor delav to tind it. 

O, ray heart 
Will often pain me as for some strange fault, — 
Some grave detect in nature, — when I think 
How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, 
Moved to the inusic of the tideless main, 
While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod. 
And 1 did not know. 



I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
When delicate leaves were young ; 

Tht, children called us from yonder wood. 
While a mated blackbird sung. 



n. 



Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call,'- 
Ami I henr your pattering feet ; 

It does not matter, matter at all, 
You fatherless children sweet, — 



rcL 



It docs not matter at all to yon, 

Young hearts that pleasure besets J 

The father sleeps, but the world is new. 
The child of his love forgets. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES 879 

IV. 

I too, it may be, before they drop, 

The leaves that flicker to-day, 
Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, 

Shall pass from my place away : 

Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 

Or snow lies soft on the wold, 
Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, 

And leave the story untold. 

VI. 

Shall T tell it there ? Ah, let that be, 
For the warm pdse beats so high ; 
To love to-day, and to breathe and see, — 
ro-morrow perhaps to die. — 

vn. 

Leave it with God. But this I have knowD 

That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone. 

Forget by full of the moon. 

VIII. 

But if all loved, as the few can love, 
This worhl would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death-knell. 

IX. 

There are four or fi\e. who, passing this place, 

While they live will name me yet ; 
And when I am gone will think on my face, 
' And feel a kind of regret. 



880 tVrXSTAMEY 

WINSTANLEY. 



THE APOLOtn. 

Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushe.<(, 
** W((tt r-(/r<ifis, yon Jxitotc not ic/iat I do / 

Jiiioir not (>/»n; stonns^nor of i)ij/ hashes, 
And I know not you.''* 

Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Mind ! O xeakeni 
Jireathe, O icincf, and set onr answer Jrce, 

For ire hare no voire, of you forsaken^ 
For the cedar- free.** 

Quoth the earth at nndnioht to the occan^ 

" Wildernexs of water, hist to viem, 
" Kdught you are to inc but sounds of motion 

I am naught to you.** 

Quoth the ocean, " D<(icn f fairest, ch'arcst, 
7ohch n>e with thy yofden fnyers bland j 

For I h<tre no sn>ile till thou apj.carcst 
For the lovely land.** 

Quoth the hero dyinp, whelmed in {lory, 
'* Many hloine me, few have understood / 

Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story, — 
jlake its incanii)y good.** 

Quoth the f "Ik, " Si/iy, poet ! teach us, prove U3j 
Su7'ely we shtdl learn the nieaiiny then ; 

"Wound us with a pain divine, move us, 
For this man of men.** 



Wixstani.kyV (1oo«1, you kiiullv folk, 

With It 1 fill my lay, 
And a nobler ninn n»'\>r walked the world, 

Let bis name be what it may. 



W/KSTANlEy. 881 

The good sliip "Snowdrop" tairicd long, 

Uj) ill tlie vane louUi-d lie ; 
"liiilikc," he said, Un- ilie niiid had dropped, 

"IShe liuth becalmed at sea." 

The lovel) iadies iloeked within, 

And still wuuld eat h one s:iy, 
« Good mercer, bo the ships come up?** 

But slill he answered "Nay." 

Then stepped two mariners down the street. 

With hioks of grief and fear ; 
" Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer I 

"For the good ship' Snowdrop 'struck — she struck 

On the rock, — the Kddystone, 
And down she went with liireescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

"Down in the ileep, with freight and crew. 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale lias conic to slioro 

Of all thy merchandise." 

For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
"For velvet coif, or costly coat, 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

"O thou bravo skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mMriners, bold and true, 
Sorry fit heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

"]\rany long dnys W^insfanley's breast 

Shall feel a w'eight within, 
For a waft of wiml he shall bo 'feared 

And trading count but siu. 



383 WINSTANLEY. 

" To him IK) more it .sliall be joy 

To pace the clieiTful town, 
And 8L-e tlie lovely ladies gay 

(Step on in velvet gown." 

Tlie "Sno\vdro]>" n.nk at Lammas tide. 

All under the yeasty ppray ; 
On Cliristin:us Eve the brig '*' Content '* 

Was also cast away. 

He little thouglit o' New Years night, 

So joily MS he sat then, 
While drank the toast and ]'raised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving-lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembUnl on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran \\\> the roof 
Till the lamps did rock ti'erhead 

And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
Drop})ed down tlu'ir berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wnve washed in his sailor lads, 

And laiil them side by side. 

There 8tep])ed a stranger to the board : 
"Now, stranger, who be ye?" 

He looked to right, he looked to left, 
And " Rest you merry, " qiioth he ; 

*' For yon did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a stcMin had blown ; 
For you did not see the white M'ave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddystone. 



WJJVSTAXIMV. {i!^3 

*'She diave at tli(.' rock with Btcrnsails set ; 

Crash wont the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back witli Iier mortal blow, 

Then leaped at it again. 

*' There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

"I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went, 

And sank like any stone. 

"She was a fair shij), but all's one ! 

For Jianght could l>ide the shock." 
*' I will take horse," VVinstanley said, 

" And see this deadly rock ; 

" For never again shall l)ark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow, 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on l*Iymouth Hoe, 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away ; 

And shot u]) its stately liead, 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

" 'Tis the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

I am a mercer of London town. 
And owner of vessels three, — 



584 WIN STANLEY. 

•" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track tlio main." 
*' You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 

" That on the rock complain. 

"An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring rights 
Well with my thoughts lliey chime, 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free, 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny." 

The old Mayor laughed, but siglied als6 
"Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash ; 

Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out 
Fr'^m the sea that doth it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh. 
But straight they lay him dead ; 

A seventy-gun-ship, sir ! — tJiey'U shoot 
Higher than her mast-head. 



o 



"O. beacons sighted in the dark. 
They are right Avelcome thiugs, 

And ]>itchpot8 Hamiiig ou the shore 
Show fair as angels wings. 

" Hast gold \w hand ? then light the land, 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
Bnt let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 



WINSTANLEY. . 880 

Yet eaid he, " Nay, — I must away, 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will 1 made. 

Or ever 1 did thee greet. 

" If I must die, then let me die 

By the rock and not elsewhere J 
If I may live, O let me live 

To mount my lighthouse stair. " 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 

And answered : " Have thy way ; 
Thy heart is stout, as if round about 

It was braced with an iron stay : 

** Have thy will, mercer I choose thy mo! 

Put off from the stoi-m-rid shore ; 
God with thee be, or I shall see 

Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wavey 

An(i foam flew up the lea, 
Morning and oven the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and gear > 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore^ 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited an^ more, 

Pacing the strand alone. 
Or ever he set his manlv foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystono. 

Then he and the sea began their strife^ 
And worked with power and might.' 

Whatever tlie man reared up by day 
Tmo stja oroke aown oy night. 



SSG If/.VS TA NLE Y. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam. 

He sailed to shore at flow ; 
And at bis side, by tliat same tide, 

Came bar and beam also. 

'' Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 

" Or thou wilt rue the day." 
*' Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 

" J3ut the rock will have its way. 

*' For all his looks that are so stout, 
And his speeches brave and fair, 

He may Avait on tbe wind, Avait on the wav«?. 
But he'll build no lighthouse there." 



■to' 



In fine weather and foul weather 

Tiie roek his arts did flout, 
Tlirough the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another j'ear came in : 
** To take his Avage," the workmen said, 

** We almost count a sin." 

Now March was gone, came April in, 

And a sea-fog settled down. 
And forth sailed he on a glassy Fca, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wor.t to do ; 
They snowed in the fog like ghosts full faint,-^ 

A ghostly craft atid crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway. 
For a long eight days and more ; 

"God help our men," quotli the women theitt ? 
" For they bide Jong from shore." 



WINSTAXLEY. ' 881 

Tbey paced the Tloe in doubt and dread t 

" Wliere tn.iy <>nr nmriturs bo V " 
But the hroodiiinj fog lay soft as down 

Ovt"' the quiet, sea. 

A Scottish scliooncr made (lie port, 

The thirteenth day at e'en : 
** As I am a man," the eaptain cried, 

" A strange siglit I have seen : 

''And a strange sound heard, my masters alt^ 

At sea, in tlie fog and rain, 
A.ike shipwrights' liainuiers tapping low, — 

Then loud, then low again. 

" And a stately house one instant showed, 
Through a rift, on the vessePs l.?e ; 

What manner of creatures may be those 
That build upon the sea ?" 

Then sighed the folk, " The Lord he praised \ ' 
And they lh)cke<l to the shore amain ; 

All over the lloe, that livelong night. 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared bis headf 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
Anil, lo ! in the otting faint and far 

Winstanley'a house at sea 1 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower nj)i-ose ; 
In foul weather, witii liunfror and cold^ 

They were content to close ; 

Till wx* the stair "Winsfanley went. 

To fii'e the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night. 

Looked out, and saw her star. 



888 . WINSTANLEY. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore 

Saul he, " My v\()ik is done ; 
I liold It, stn^ng to last as long 

As aiiglii beneath the sun. 

' Bui if it fail, as fail 5t may, 

liorne down with ruin aiid ront| 
Another than I sliali rear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than T shall rear it high, 

For now the way is plain, 
AihI f hough 1 were dead," Winstanley saidj, 

*' The light would shine again. 

" Yet were T fain still to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

** And if it stood, why, then 'twere good, 

Amid their tremulous stirs. 
To eount each stroke, when the mai waves broke 

For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well. 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

"Ay ! I were fain, long to remain. 

Watch in va-^ tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep." 

With that Winstanley went his way, 

And left the rock renowned, 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 



IVINSTANLEY. • 889 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

i'hat be woukl put to soa, 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 
On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds broke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks c;imc plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling gravee. 

And each Hung up its head ; 
The seething flow was white below. 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, 

Broke on ihe trembling town, 
And m(Mi looked south to the harbor moutbj 

The lighthouse tower was down, — 



Down in the deep where he doth sleep 

WIio made it shine afar, 
And tlion in the night that drowned its light. 

Set, with his pilot star. 



Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they show ; 
The brave and the great lie there in states 

Winstaiiley lieth low. 



S90 T^E MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

TiiERK are who give themselves to work for men,,' 

To laise the lost, to gather orphaned babes 

A.iul teach them, pitying of their mean estate, 

To feel for misery, and to look on crime 

With rnth, till they forget "that they themselves 

Are of the race, themselves among the crowd 

Under the sentence and ontside the gate, 

And of the family and in the doom. 

Cold is the world ; thoy feel how cold it is. 

And wish that they conld warm it. Hard is life 

For some. They would that they could soften itf 

And, in the doing of their work, they sigh 

As if it was their choice and not their lot ; 

And, in the raising of their prayer to God, 

They ciave His kindness for the world He made;. 

Till they, at last, forget that He, not they. 

Is the true lover of mau. 



Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low, — 
Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed 
Too many, that it erst had fed, behind, — 
There walked a curate once, at early day. 

It was the summer time ; but summer air 
Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark 
And crowded alley, — never renclicd the door 
Whereat he stopped, — the sordid, shattered dooi 

He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld 
Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements 
That leaTied toward each other ; broken ]ianes 
Bulging with rags, and giim with old neglect j 
And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped 
To fade and fester in \ stagnant air. 



THE A/O.VITIONS OF THE UNSEE^T. 891 

But he thoiijrlit notliingof it ; he had learned 
To take all wrcU-licdiicss for jjjraiif ('<!, — he, 
Reared in a Htainless home, and I'adiant yet 
With tlie cU-arhues of liealtlifnl Englisli youth, 
Had learned lo kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop 
Under fonl lintels. Ihi eonid toneh, with hand 
Unshrinkiiiu^, fevered lingers ; he conh] hear 
The language of the lost, in haunt and den, — 
So dismal, tliat tlie (roldest |)asser-l)y 
Must needs be soi-ry for them, and, albeit, 
They eursed, would dare to speak no harder words 
Thau these,—" God help tlu m I " 

Ay J a learned man 
The curate in all woes tliat plague mankind, — 
Too learned, for he was but young. His heart 
Had yearned tillit was overstrained, and lujw 
lie — plunged into a narrow slough urd)leKt, 
Had strngghid with its deadly waters, till 
His own lu'ad had goiu; under, and he took 
Small joy in work he could not look to aid 
Its cleansing. 

Yet, by one right tender tie, 
Hope held him yet. The fathers eoai'se and dull. 
Vile mothers hard, and boys aiul girls [)rofane, 
His soul drew back from. Wo had worked for them,— ' 
Work without joy : but in his heart of hearts, 
He loved the little childi'en ; and, whene'er 
He heai'd their praftlt; innoeent, and heard 
Their tender voicH'S lisping sacred words 
That lu! had tanght them, — in the cleanly calm 
Of de(!ent school, by decent matron held, — 
'I'he!! would he say, " I shall have pleasure yet, 
In these." 

But now, when he pushed back that doot 
And mounted np a ilight of ruined stairs, 
He said not that. lb; said, " Oil ! oiu'e T thought 
The little children would make bright ror mc 



Syj THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

The crown they wear who have won many souls 
For riglitoousness ; but oh, tins evil phicc ! 
Hard linos it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,~* 
Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, 
And blows instead of care. 

And 80 they die, 
The little children that T love, — they die, — 
They turn their wistful faces to the wall, 
And slip away to God." 

With that, his hand 
He laid upon a latch and lifted it. 
Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. 

What saw he there? He saw a three-years child. 

That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw 

Svvept up into a corner. O'er its brow 

The damps of death Avere gathering : all alone, 

Uncared for, save that by its side Mas set 

A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased 

To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed 

In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise 

Of coming change, — as though they saw the gate 

Of that fair land that seems to most of us 

Very far off. 

When he beheld the look, 
'ile said, " I knew, I knew how this would be I 
Another ! Ay, and but fordriinkon blows 
A.nd dull forgetfulnoss of infant need, 
This little one had lived." And thereupon 
The misery of it wrought upon him so, 
That, unaware, he wept. ! then it was 
That, in the bending of his manly lu'a<l. 
It came between the child and that whereon 
He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again. 
Those dying eyes, drawn back to (>arth once more 
Looked up into his own, and smiled. 



Tins MoxiTWNs 01' THE unseen: 893 

TTc <ln'\v' 
More iK'ur, :in<l kiicicled beside tLe small I'ruil lliiiig, 
IJccauso tlie lips were moving ; and it raised 
Its baby hand, and stroked away liis tears, 
And whisi)ered, "Master ! master!" and so died. 

Now, in that town tliero was an ancient church, 
A minster of old days which these had turned 
To parish uses ; thcri! the curate served. 
It stood within a (juiet swarded Close, 
Sunny and still, and, tliough it was not far_ 
From those dark courts where poor lumanity 
Struj:L!,lc(l and swarmed, it seemed to Vear its own 
Still alMios[)here about it, and lo hold 
Tliat old-world calm within its pre(;ino^w pure 
And that grave rest which modern lir« foregoes 

When the sad curate, rising from hjs It lees. 
Looked from the dead to heaven, — as, mavvare, 
Men do when they would track departed life, — 
lie heard the deep tone of tlie minstcr-l><;ll 
Sounding for service, and he tun.ed awj y 
So lu'avy at lieart, that, wlien lu; left beb^nd 
That dismal habitation, and came out 
In the clear sunsliine of the minster-y<4rd, 
lie never rnarkerl it. Up the aisie he Mioved, 
With his own gloom about liim ; tlK^'-i came *(>^*.h 
And read before the folk grand ".vordf and (^a'rn, - 
Words full of hope ; but into his dul' heart 
Hope (laiiui not. As otie talketli in a dream, 
And doth not mark the sense of his owu words. 
He read ; and, as one walketh in a dr^am, 
He after walked toward tlus vestmei;t-:-oom, 
And never marked the way he went by, — no, 
Nor tlie gray verger that before him stot<Jl, 
The great church-keys de[)eiiding fr( ni ni. hand, 
Heady to follow him out and lock tl.-j door. 

At length, aroused to present things, but pot 
Content to break the sequence of hisi tbougut. 



894 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Nor ready for the working day tliat iield 
Its busy course witliout, he said, " Good frieiia, 
Leave lue the keys : I woukl remain awhile." 
And, when the verger gave, he nu)ve(l Avitli him 
Toward tlie door distrauglit, then sluit him out. 
And locked himself within tlie church alone. 
The minster-churcli was like a gn al brown cave, 
Fluted and line with pillars, an(i all diin 
With glorious gloom ; but, as (he curale turned. 
Suddenly shone the sun, — and roof and walls, 
Also the clusteiing shafts from end to end, 
Were thickly sown all over, as it were, 
With seedling rainbows. And it went and came 
And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up 
Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings 
And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim. 
And drop))ed upon the curate as he passed, 
And covered his white raiment and his hair. 

Then did look down upon him from their place, 

High in the npjicr lights, grave mitercd priests, 

And grand ohl monarciis in their {lowered gowns 

And capes of miniver ; and therewithal 

(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun 

Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, 

And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes; 

A somber glory as of rusted gold. 

Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, 

That made the ^loor a beauty and dcligiit. 

Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough 

To have been wafted there the day they dropt 

On the flower-beds in heaven. 

The curate pass*^' 
Adown the long south aisle, and did not think 
Upon this beauty, nor that he himself — 
Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair 
With all the majesty that noble work 
And stainless manners give — did add his part 
To make it fau'er. 



THE MONITIONS OP THE UNSEEN. 865 

In among the knights 
That lay with hands npHfted, by the lute 
And palm of many a saint, — 'neath capitals 
VVIieroon oi. r falluTs had boon bold to cai've 
^VitIl earthly tools their ancient childlike dream 
Concerning heavenly I'rnil and living bovvers, 
A'ld ulad full-throated birds that sing up there 
•Among the bi'aiK^hes of tlie tree of life, — 
Through all ihe ordeix'd forest of the shafts, 
Shoi ling on higii to cntei- into light, 
U'hat swarm alofi, — he took his silent way, 
And in tlie southern ti-ansept sat him down, 
Covered his face, and thought. 

ITe said, " No pain, 
No passion, and no aching, heart (»' mine, 
Dotli stir within thee. Oil ! I would there did : 
Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost 
I know not what. I see the heavens as lead ! 
They tend no whither. Ah ! the world is bared 
Of h'M' enchantment now : she is but earth 
And water. And, though mturh hath [tassed away, 
'J'here may be more to go. I may forget 
The joy an I fear that have been : there may live 
No more for me the fervency of hope 
Nor the arrest of wonder. 

" Once I said, 
'Content will wait on work, though work appear 
Tlufruitful.' Now I say, ' Where is the good? 
What is the good '?' A lamp when it is lit 
Mu^t needs give light ; but 1 am like a man 
Holding his lamp in some desei-ted place 
Where no foot passeth. Must T trim my lamp, 
And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, 
When use for it is none? I must ;• I will. 
J'hough God withhold ni}' wages, I must work, 
And watch the bringing of my woik to naught,— 
Weed m the vineyai-d through the heat o' the day, 
And, overtasked, behold the weedy place 
Grow ranker yet in spite of me. 



M THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

« Ob ! yet 

Mv meditated words are trodden down 
Like a rittle wayside grass. Castaway shells, 
Liftea and tossed aside by a plunging Avave, 
Have no more force against it than have I 
Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, 
That, lifting and dislodging me, drive* on, 
And notes not mine endeavor.'' 

Afterward, 
He added more words like to these ; to wit, 
That it was hard to see the world so sad : 
Ho would that it were hn])])ier. It was hard 
To see the blameless overborne ; and hard 
To know that God, who loves the world, shoi»ld yet 
Let it lie down in sori-ow, when a smile 
From Him would make it laugh and sing, — a word 
From Him transform it to a heaven. He said,- 
Moreover, " When will- this be done ? My life 
Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired. 
And oh ! it may be that, uncomforted 
By foolish hope of doing good and vain 
Conceit of being useful, I may live, 
And it may be my duty to go on 
"Working for years and years, for years and years." 
But, while the words were uttered, in his heart 
There dawned a vague alaim. He was aware 
That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up 
His face. " I am alone " the curate said, — 
" I think I am alone. Wliat is it, then ? \ 

I am ashamed ! ]\Iy raiment is not clean. • 

]My lij)s, — I am afraid they are not clean. 
JMy heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me. 
To be a man, ajid yet to tremble so I 
Strange, strange 1 " 

And there was sitting at his feet — 
He could not see it plainly — at his feet 
A very little child. And, Avhile the blood 
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEM. 897 

Gazing, and, lo ! the loveliness from heaven 

To»k clearer form and color. He beheld 

The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth, — 

The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, 

And perfect in possession. So it spoke, 

" My master ! " but he answered not a word ; 

And it went on : " I had a name, a name. 

l[e knew my name ; but here they can forget." 

The curate answered : " Nay, I know thee well. 

I love thee. Wherefore art thou come ?" It said, 

" They sent me ; " and he faltered, " Fold thy hand, 

O most dear little one ! for on it gleams 

A. gem that is so bright I cannot look 

Thereon." It said, " When I did leave this world, 

That was a tear. But that was long ago ; 

For I have lived among the happy folk, 

You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, 

" Do they forget us, while beneath the palms 

They take their infinite leisure ? " And, with eyes 

That seemed to muse upon him, looking up 

In peace the little child made answer, "Nay ;" 

And murmured, in the language that he loved, 

" How is it that his hair is not yet white ; 

For I and all the others have been long 

Waiting for him to come." 

" And was it long ? '* 
The curate answered, pondering. " Time being done 
Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, 
In ourto-conie, of infinite extension?" 
Then said the child, " In heaven we children talk 
Of the great matters, and our lips are wise ;* 
IJiit here I can but talk with thee in words 
That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen. 
It said, " I priiy you take me in your arms." 
'IMien, being afraid but willing, so he did ; 
And partly drew about the radiant child. 
For better covering its dread purity. 
The foldings of his gown. And he beheld 
its beauty, and the tremulous woven light 



898 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

That liung upon its liair ; witbal, the robe, 

♦ Whiter ilian lullcr of this woild can white,* 

Tiiat clothed its niuiiorlalitv. And so 

The trembling came again, and he Avas dumb, 

Repenting his uncleanness : and be lift 

Ills eyes, ;vnd all the holy jd.ice was full 

01 livijig tilings ; and some Avere faint and dim, 

As it they bore an intermittent life, 

Waxing and waning ; and they had no form. 

But drifted on like sluv/ly trailed clouds, 

Or moving sj.ots of darkness, with an eye 

Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, 

Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, 

And some were meri-like, luit their heads bung dowi. , 

And be said, "O my God ! let me find grace 

Not to behold their faces, for I know 

They must be wicked and right terrible." 

But wuile he prayed, lo ! w hisiH-rs ; and there moved 

Two shadows on the wall. He could not see 

UMie lorms of them that cast them ; he co'ild see 

Only rhe shadows as of two that sat 

Upon, the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, 

Tiiey i'sped together. And he shuddered much : 

There uis a rustling near him, and be feared 

Lest tbey should touch him, and be feel their to»i'»h. 

**It "«s not great," quoth one, "the Avork achieved 

We do, and we delight to do, our best : 

But t-\M IS littio, for, my dear," quoth she, 

" Thirt tow'U* f\T;d town have been infested long 

W^ith ungels." — "Ay," tlie other made reply, 

"I barl a little evil one, of late, 

'J'hat 1 ])icked up as Jt Avas ciawling otit 

O' the |)it, and look and cherisbecl in my breast. 

It woi Id divine for me. and oft would moan, 

* Pray theo, no churches,' and it spake of this. 

But 1 was harried once, — thou know'st by wliom,— 
And fied in here ; and when he fol'owei me, 
1 crouching by this pillar, he let down 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 899 

His liand, — T)oin£j all too proiul to send his eyes 

In its wake, — and, piiickiiujj forth my tender imp^ 

Flimt^ it behind hitii. It went yel|>ing I'orth ; 

And, as for uie, 1 never saw it more. 

Itlnch is ai^ainst us, — very mneh : tlie timc« 

Are l\ard." kSho paused : lier Ceilow took tlic wonl» 

Plaining on such as ])reaeh and tliem that ])lead, 

" Even such as haunt tlie ya\vriing mouths oi' hell," 

Quoth she, "and pluek them hack that run therctT** 

Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him 

The u! teranco ul' his name. " Tliere is no soul 

'J'iiat I loathe more, andoftener curse. Woe's me, 

'J'iiat cursing should he vain ! Ay, he will go 

(Jalher the sucking children, that are yet 

Too young for us, and watch and shelter them 

Till the strong An'gt'ls — pitiless and stern, 

But to them loving evei' — swe('])them in, 

Jjy armsful, to the unapproachable fold. 

*' We strew liis path with gold : it will not lie. 
'Deal softly with him,' was the marster's word. 
We brought him all delights : his angel came 
And stood betw(!en them and his eyes. "^J'hey spend 
Much pains upon him, — keep him ))Oor and low 
j\nd utdx'loved ; and thus he gives hi« mind 
To fill the fateful, the impregnable 
Child-fold, and sow ou earth the seed of stars. 

" Oil ! hard is serving against love, — the lovo 

Of the unspeakable ; i or if we soil 

'Ihe souls lie o])eneth out ? washing-place ; 

And if we grudge, and snatch away the bre«\«L 

Ther will lie save by poverty, and gain 

]?y early giving up of blameless life ; 

And if we shed out gold. He even will navo 

In spite of gold, — of twice refined gold." 

With that the curate set his daunted eye* 
To look upon the shadows of the fienda. 



400 THE MONITIONS OF THE i/NSEEN. 

He was made sure they could not see the child 
That nestled in his arms ; he also knew 
They were unconscious that his mortal ears 
Had new intellijrence, which gave their speech 
Possible entrance through his garb of clay. 

H'j was afraid, yet awful gladness reached 
His soul : the testimony of the lost 
LTpbraided him ; but while he tiembled yet. 
The heavenly child had lifted up its head 
And left his arms, and on the marble floor 
Stood beckoning. 

And, its touch withdrawn, the place 
Was silent, empty ; all that swarming tribe 
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, 
And shut into their separate world, were closed 
From his observance. He arose, and paced 
After the little child, — as naif in fear 
That it would leave him, — till they reached a door { 
And then said he, — but much distraught he spoke. 
Laying his hand across the lock, — " This door 
Shuts in the stairs wl ereby men mount the tower. 
Would thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven ?** 
It answered, " I will mount them." Then said he, 
"And I will follow."—*' So thou shall do well," 
The radiant thing replied, and it went up, 
And he, amazed, went after ; for the stairs, 
Otlierwhile dark, were lightened by the rays 
Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, 
And hair whereon had smiled the light of God. 

With that, they, pacing on, came out at last 

Into -x dim, weird place, — a chamber formed 

Betwixt the roofs : for you shall know that all 

The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, 

"Was covered with the dust of ages, laid 

Thick with those chips of stone wiiich they had left 

Who wrought it j but a high-pitched roof was reatxj^ 



THE MONITIONS OP THE UNSEEN. 401 

Above it, and tlie western gable pierced 

With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beama 

loomed 
Across, and many daws frequented there, 
riie starling and the span-ow littered it 
With straw, and peeped from many a sliady nook • 
And there was lifting up of wings, and there 
Was hasty exit when the curate came. 
I?«t si' ting on a beam and moving not 
For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves 
Bowing their heads, and cooing ; and the child 
P'u f'Tth a hand to touch his own, but straight 
II , startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, 
A Stirling fancy smote him,atid he thought 
That language trembled on their innocei.t tongues, 
And floated forth in speech that man could hear. 
Then said the child, " Yet tou(th, my master dear." 
And he let down his hand, and touched again ; 
And so it was. "But if they had their way," 
One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?' 



>» 



Then he looked well upon them as he stood 

Upright before them. They were feathered doves. 

And sitting close together ; and their eyes 

Were rounded with the rim that inai'ks their kind. 

Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam, — 

No phantoms they ; and soon the fellow-dove 

Made answer, " Nay, they count themselves «o wise; 

There is no task they shall \w. set to do 

But they will ask God why. What mean they soP 

The glory is not in the task, but in 

Ttie doing it for Ilim. What should he think, 

Brotaer, this man that must, forsooth, be set 

Such noble work, and suffei-ed to behold 

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?" 

With that the other leaned, as if altent : 

" I am not perfect, lirother, in his thought." 

The mystic bird replied, " Bi-olher, he saith, 

' But it is naught • the work is over-hard.' 

Whose fault is thatV God sets not overwork. 



402 THE MONITIONS OF THE L/NSEEhT. 

He saith the world is soiTowful, and he 
Is therefore soi'i'owftil. lie cannot set 
The ciooked sti'aight ; — but who demands of him, 
.0 brother, that he sliouhl ? What ! thinks he, then^ 
His work is God's advantage, f;nd liis will 
More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's. 
Nay, yet there live amongs^t us legions fair. 
Millions on millions, who could do right well 
What he must fad in ; and 'twas whispered me, 
That chiefly for himself ll:e t.Msk is given, — 
His little daily task." With that he paused. 

Then said the other, preening its f^.ir wing, 

" Men have discovered all God's ii^lands novv--, 

And given them names ; whereof they are as proud, 

And deem themselves as great, as if their hands 

Had made them. Strange is man, and strange hia 

pride. 
Now, as for ns, it matters not to learn 
What and from whence we be : How should wc teli ^ 
Our workl is un(lisc<)veied in these skies, 
Our names not %vhisiK'red. Yet, for U5 and oure^ 
What joy it is,— pei-niission to come down, 
Not souls, as Ih', to the bosom of their (iod. 
To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls. 
His h)vely lower-fashioned lives to help 
To take their foi-ms by legions, fly, and draw 
With us the sweet, ol)edient, llocking things 
That ever heai oui messnge reverently, 
And follow us far. ' How should they know theii 

way, 
Forsootli, alone? Men say they fly alone : 
Yet some have set on record, and aven ea. 
That they, among the flocks, had liuly m*>rlfe(l 
A leader." 

Then his fellow made rcjily : 
"They might divine the Maker's heart. Coi^o tox^t 
Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wm^is^ 
For Him that loveth them." 



THE MOXITIOI^S OP TffE V^SEEN. 40> 

Witli that, tho child 
WitluTrow liis hand, and all their Hpocch was done. 
Hi' moved toward tliein, l>iii tlicy lluttered forth 
'Ami lied into tho siuisliino 

" I would fain," 
S;iid he, "have heard sorno more. And wilt thou go? " 
Jle added to theeiiild, for fiiis li.ul tuiiied. 
" Ay," (juoth lie, ncinlly, " to I lie Ix'sr^ar's place J 
For I would 800 tho beggar in tho porch." 

S) they wont down together to llio door, 

AVIiieli, wlion l.Iio (nirato opened, lo ! without 

TIu! heggar w,\\. ; and he saluted him : 

"(}i)od morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?' 

'J^he (Mirale askecj : "it, is not sei'viee-time. 

And iioiii' will enter now to gi^'e (Iie(! almr>." 

I'heii s;i,id the heggar, " I have hope at heart 

rii.it I siiall go to my poor iiouse um more." 

"Art thou so sieic that thou dost think to die?" 

'I'iu! eurale sai<l, Willi that, (lu; heggai- laughed, 

And iiiiiler his dim eyelids gnthered le;u"s, 

And he w.is all a, tremhhi with a strange' 

And moving exaltation. " Ay," <pu)th he. 

And set his face toward high lieavon : " I think 

Tho hiessiuL!,- that I wait on must he near." 

Then said tho (Mirate, " CJod he good to thee." 

And, straight, tho little child put forth his hand. 

And touched him. " Master, master, hush \ 

You sliDuM not,, mastei', speak so carelessly 

In this great presonco." 

But tho touch Ro wrought, 

That, lo ! the da/zlod curate staggered back, 
For dread eirulgence from the l»eggai''s eyes 
Smotc! him, +vn(l from the crippU'd limbs shot forth 
'I'errible lights, as ])ure long blades of firo. 
"Withdraw thy touch! withdraw tliy touch!" b« 
tried, 



'1^ 



404 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEED, 

" i)v else shall I be blinded." Then the child 
St-'od hack from him ; and he eat down apait, 
liocovering of his manhood : and he heard 
rhii beggar and the child discourse of things 
Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came 
Anew ; and, Avhen the beggar looked on him. 
He said, " If I offend not, pray you tell 
Who and what are you, — I behold a face 
llarred with old age, sickness, and poverty, — 
A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat 
Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch 
For pain and for the wind's inclemency. 
What are you ? " Then the beggar made reply, 
" I A\a8 a delegate, a living power ; 
My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand 
To plant a new-made world. O happy work I 
It grew and blossomed ; but my dwelling-place 
Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen ^ 
I knew no wish to enter there. But, lo ! 
There went forth rumors, running out like rays, 
How some, that were of power like even to mina^ 
Had made request to come and find a place 
Within its walls. And these were satisfied 
With promises, and sent to this far world 
To take the weeds of your mortality, 
And minister, and suffer grief and pain. 
Ami die like jneii. Then weie they gathered m 
They saw a face, and were accounted kin 
To Whom thou knowest, for He is kin to men. 

^' Then T did wait ; and oft, at work, T sang, 

' To minister ! oh, joy, to minister !' 

And, it being known, a message came to me 

* Whether is l)est, thou forest-planter wise, 

To minister to otivers, or that they 

Should minister to thee ?' Then, on ni}' face 

Low lying, I made answer : ' It is best, 

Most Iligti, to minis'er ; ' and thus c.imeback 

The answer, — ' Choose not for thyself the best s 

Go down, and, lo 1 my poor shall minister. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEIf- 40f 

Oat of their poverty, lo tlice ; shall learn 
Compassion by thy fr. ilty ; and shall olt 
Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help 
Tlice, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, 
Thou shalt importune lor their slender mite, 
And pray, and move them that they give it up 
For love of Me.'" 

The curate answered him, 
" Art thou content, O great one from afar I 
If 1 may ask, and not offend ? " He said, 
" I am. Uchold ! I stand not all alone, 
That I should think to do a ])erfect work. 
I may not wish to give ; for I have heard 
'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, 
God is the only giver, and His gift 
Is one." With that, the little child sighed out 
" O master ! master ! I am out of heaven 
Since noonday, and I hear them calling n.ie. 
If you be ready, great one, let us go : — 
Hark ! hark ! they call."' 

Then did the beggar lift 
His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry 
As of the pangs of death, and every tree 
Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. 
He cried again, and there came forth a hand 
From some invisible form, which, being laid 
A little moment on the curate's eyes, 
It da/zled him with light that brake from it. 
So that he saw no more. 

« What shallldo?" 
The curate mnf-mured, Avhen he came again 
To iiimself and looked about him. " This is strange T 
My thoughts are ail astray ; and yet, niethinks, 
A weight is taken from my heart. Lo ! lo ! 
There i let h at my feet, frail, white, and dead. 
The sometime beggar. He is happy now. 



406 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEfT. 

There was a chilrl ; but he is gojie, and he 

Is also happy. I am clad to think 

I am not bound to make the wrong go right ; 

But only to discover, and to do, 

With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints.* 

With that, he did compose, with reverent rare, 
Tlie dead ; continuing, " I will trust in Ilim, 
That IIk can hold IIis oavn ; ajul I Avill take 
His will, above the work He sendeth me, - 
To be my chiefest good." 

Then went he forth 
"I sliall die early," thinking : "I am Avarned, 
]>y this fair vision, that I have not long 
To live." Yet he lived on to good ol<l age ;-^ 
Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. 



It may be there are many in like case ; 
They give themselves, and are in misery 
IJecause the gift is small, and dotli not make 
The world by so much better as they fain 
Would have it. 'Tis a fault ; but, as for ns, 
Let us not blame them. JNIaybe, 'tis a fault 
INTore kindly looked on by The Majesty 
Than our best virtues are.- Why, what are we 1 
What liave we given, and what have we desired 
To give, the world ? 

There must be something wrong. 
Look to it : let ns mend our ways. Farewell. 



A BIRTH DA V irAL/r. 407 

A BTRTIIDAY WALK. 
'written fob a friend's birthday.) 



♦The days of our life sire thiccpcore ypare and ten." 



A tTiRTiiDAT : — and now a day that rose 
Willi nuicli of lio|)C, with meaning rife — 

A tlioughtful day from dawn to close : 
The middle day of human life. 

Ip sloping fields on narrow plains, 

The Bheep were feeding on their knees. 

As we went through the winding lanes, 
Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. 

So warm the day — its intluence lent 
'J'o flagging thoughts a stronger wing ; 

So utterly \,'as winter spent, 

So sudden was the birth of spring. 

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge — 
In sunlight, clustering thick below, 

Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge. 
Where sparkled yet a line of snow. 

And crowded snowdrops faintly hung 
Their fair heads lower for the heat, 

While in still air all branches flung 
Their shadowy doubles at our feet. 

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, 
Dro))ped through the maple and the birch ; 

And lost in airy distance s'ept 

On the broad tower of Tarn worth Church 



408 A BIRTHDA Y WALIC. 

Then, linojering on the downward way, 

A little space we resting stood, 
To watch the go den haze that lay 

Adown that river by the wood. 

A distance vague, the bloom of sleep 
The constant sun had lent the scene, 

A veiling charm on dingles deep 

Lay soft those pastoral hills between. 

There are some days that die not out, 

Nor alter by reflection's power, 
Whose converse calm, whose words devout. 

Forever rest, the spirit's dower. 

And they are days when drops a veil — 

A mist up 'H the distance past ; 
And while we say to peace — " All hail ! ** 

We hope that always it shall last. 

Times when the troubles of the heart 

Are hushed — as winds were hushed that day -^ 

And budding hopes begin to start, 

Like those green hedgerows on our way : 

When all within and all around, 

Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, 

And Nature's hand has made to sound 
The heartstrings that her touch attend • 

When there are rays within, like those 
That streamed through maple and through birclk 

And rested in such calm repose 
On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 



NOT IX VAIN I Waited. " 409 



NOT IN VAIN 1 WAITED. 

She was but a cliild, a child, 

Aiid I a man grov\n ; 
Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, 

And, I thought, my own. 

What could T do? The long giass groweth, 

The long wave floweth with a inunnur on : 
The why and the whei'efore of it all who know 

eth? 
Ere I thought to lose her she was grown -r- and 
gone. 

Tills day or that day in warm spring weather, 

The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its 

tether. 
*■' But if the world wound thee," I said, " come back 

to me, 
Down in the dell wishing, — wishing, wishing for 

thee." 

The dews hang on the white may. 

Like a ghost it stands, 
All in the dusk before day 

That folds the dim lands : 
Dark fell the si\ies when once belated, 

Sid, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun ; 
But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited, 

O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won ! 
Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover, 
Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over ; 
Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see : 
Down the dell she's coming — coming, coming with 
me. 



415 - WtTH A DIAMOHH. 



A GLEANING SONG. 

•' WiiiTUER .away, thou litllc careless rover? 

(Kind Roger's true) 
Whither away, aeross yon bents and clover, 
Vv^et, wet with dew?" 
" Rogei licre, Roger there — 

Ro'^er — O, lie sighed. 
Yet let nu" glean among the wheat, 
Nor sit kill i Roger's hride." 

" What wilt thou do when all the gleaning'ii, 6*i«ik^d, 

What wilt thou do? 
The cold -will come, and fog and frost-work t.iended, 
(Kind Roger's true)." 
" Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, 

When they cease to frown 
I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, 
And cry them up the town." 

" What if at last thy careless heart awalv;»ig 

This day thou rue ? " 
'* I'll ciy my flowers, and think for all it*, Li-caking, 
Kind Roger's true ; 
Roger here, Roger there, 

O, my true loved sighed, 
Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet 
And rest kind Roger's bride." 



WITH A DIAMOND. 

While Time a grim old lion gnawing lu^', 
And mumbled with its teeth yon regaj iomb. 

Like some immortal tear undimmed for Aye, 

This gem was dropped among the dusc of doom. 



FANCY. 411 

Dropped, haply, by a sad forgotten queen, 

A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue » 

Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene, 
For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. 

Take it, — a goddess might have wept such tears, 
Or Dame Electra clianged into a star, 

Tliat waxed so dim because her children's years 
In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. 

Not till the end to end to grow dull or waste, — 
Ah, what a little while the liglit we share ! • 

Hand after hand shall yet with this be grivced. 
Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. 



FANCY. 

FANCY, if thou flyest, come back anon, 

Thv fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, 
And flagrant as the feathers of that bird, 
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. 

1 ask thee not to work, or sigh — play on, 

From naught that was not, was, or is, deterred ; 

The flax that OldFatespunthy flights have stirred, 
And wavt'd memorial grass of Marathon 
Play, hut be gentle, not as on that day 

I saw thee running down the rims of doom 
With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they lay 

Smothered in light and blue — clasped to thy breast; 
Bring rather to me in the firelit room 

A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 



413 LOOKIXG DOWir. 



COMPENSATION. 

One launched a ship, but she was -wrecked at sea ; 

He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down , 
He meant much good, none came : strange destiny, 

His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, 

Yet good he had not meant became his crown ; 
For once at work, when even as nature fice. 

From thought (^f good he was, or of renown, 
God took the work for good and let good be. 
So wakened with a trembling after sleep, 

I^read Mona Koa yields her fateful store ; 
All gk^aming hot the scarlet rivers creep. 

And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to tAe shore, 
Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep, 

Lay the foundations for one island more. 



LOOKING DOWN. 

Mountains of sorrow, I liave heard your moans, 
And the moving of your pines ; but we sit high 
On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, 

And pure airs visit us from all the zones. 
Sweet world beneath, too hapj)y far to sigh. 

Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones ? 

No ; not for all the love that counts thy stones, 
While slee)>y with great light the valleys lie. 

Strange, rapturous peace ! its sunshine dotii infold 
> My heart ; I have escaped to the days divine, 

It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled, 
Ji And all the eldest ])ast was nou, wa.s mine ; 

Nay, even as if Melchisedec of old 

Might here come forth to us with bread and wine 



MAkJdKh /.ofJ:A\<; 



MAURI Kl> LOVERS. 

CoMK away, ll»e clouds are liigli. 

Put tho tlasliinj;- iK'«.'<lles by. 

Many days are not to spare, 

Or to waste, my lairest lair I 

All is ready. C'ome to day, 

For tho niiVhtinicale her lay, 

When Hhe'lindeth that the whole 

Of her love, and all her soul, 

Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 

Sobs the while she draws her breatD, 

And the bravery of her note 

In a few days altcrelh. 

Come, ere she despond, aud bco 

In a HibMit ecstasy -, , «. 

Chestnuts heave for hours and liOurB 

All tlu! glory of their llowers 

To the nieltnig blue above. 

That broods over them hke love. 

Leave the garden walls, where blow 

Apple-blossoms piidc, and low 

Ordered beds of tulips line. ^ 

Seek the blossoms made divino 

With a scent that is their soul. 

These are soulless. Bring llu^ white 

Of thy gown to bathe in light 

Walls for narrow hearts. 1 he whole 

Earth is found, and air and sea, 

Not too wide for thee and me. 

Not too wide, and yet thy lace 

Gives the meaning of all s])ace, 

And thine eyes, with staibeams fraught 

Hold the measure of all thought ; 

For of them my soul besought, ^ 

And was shown a glimpse of thine — 

A veiled vestal, with divine^ 

Bolace, in sweet love's despair, 

For that life ia brief as fair. 



411^ 



414 A WINTER SONG. 

Who hath most, he yearneth mo8% 
Sure, as seldom heretofore, 
Somewhere of the gracious more. 
Deepest joy the least sliall boast. 
Asking with new-opened eyes 
The remainder ; that which lies 
O, so fair ! but not all conned — 
O, so near ! and yet beyond. 

Come, and in the woodland sit, 
Seem a wonted part of it. 
Then, while moves the delicate air 
And the glories of thy hair 
Little flickering sun-iays strike, 
Let me see what thou art like ; 
For great love enthralls me so, 
That, in sooth, 1 scarcely know. 
Show me, in a house all green, 
Save for long gold wedges' sheen, 
Where the flies, white sparks of fire^ 
Dart and hover and aspire. 
And the leaves, air-stirred on high. 
Feel such joy they needs must sigh, 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thy feet, 
And the bees about them hum. 
All the world is waiting. Come t 



A WINTER SONG; 

Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn — 
Night is the time for the old to die — 

But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn, 
When the hind that was sick unscathed wect 

Father lay moaning, " Her fault was soi-e 
(Night is the time when the old must die), 

l^et, ah to bless her, my child, once more, 
For heart is failing: the end is nigh." 



BINDING SHEA VMS. 41i 

"Danofhter, my daughter, ray girl,"I crie^ 
(Night is the time for the ohl to die), 

"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide" — 
Dariv was the welkin and wild the sky. 

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow — 
(Night is the time when the old will die), 

She answered, " JNly -mother, 'tis well, I go." 
Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew higlx 

First at his head, and last at his feet 

(Niglit is the time when the old should die)^ 

Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet. 

None else that loved him, none else were nigh. 

I wept in the night as ti'.e desolate weep 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 

Cometh my daugliter ? the drifts are deep. 
Across the cold hollows how white they lie. 

I sought her afar through the spectral trees 
(Night is the time when the old must die). 

The fells Avere all mufilcd, the floods did freeze 
And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky. 

By night T found her where pent waves steal 
- (Night is the time when the old should die), 
'^ut she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, 

And the old stars lived in their homes on high 



BINDING SHEAVES. 

Hark ! a lover binding sheaves 

To his maiden sings. 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves. 

Larks drop their wrings, 
Little biooks for all their mirth 

•Are not blithe as he. 
«« Give me what the love is worth 

That I give thee. 



«6 W^OXX.- 

* Speech that cannot be forborn© 

Tells the story through : 
I sowed my love in with the corn. 

And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girthf 

And hived honey sweet, 
Bnt count the love of more worth 

Laid at thy feet. 

* Money's worth is house and land. 
Velvet coat and vest. 

Work's worth is bread in hand, 

Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth? 

Ah 1 she sits above, 
Sighing, ' Weigh rae not with earth. 

Love's worth is love.' " 



WORK. 



Like coral insects multitudinous 

The minutes are whereof our life is made. 
They build it up as in the deep's blue shade 

It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus 

For both there is an end. The populous 

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid 
Life's debt of work are spent ; the work is lai^ 

Before our feet that shall come after us. 

We may not stay to watch if it will speed, 
The bard if on some Inter's string his song 

Live sweetly yet ; the hero of his star 

Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, 
Else have we none more than the sea-bor.n throng 

Who wrought those marvelous isles that bloom afar. 



ro 417 



WISHING. 



When I reflect how little I have done. 
And add to that how little I have seen, 

Then furthermore how little I have won 
Of joy, or good, how litile known, or been : 
I lang for other life more full, more keen. 

And yearn to change with such as well have run — 
Yet reason mocks me — nay, the soul, I ween, 

Granted her choice would dare to change with none 

No, not to feel, as Blondel when his lay 

Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it — 

No, not to do, aa Eustace on the day 
He left fair Calais to her weeping fit — 

No, not to be, — Columbus, waked from sleep 

When his new world rose from the charmed deejik 



TO . 

Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade 

Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest. 

While yet his form and presence sat a guest 
W/th the old immortals when the feast was made. 
Tftine like, thus differs ; form and presence laid 

In this dim chamber of enforcM rest, 

It is the unseen " shade" which, risen, hath pressec! 
Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. 
My soul admires to hear thee speak ; thy thought 

Falls from a high place like an August star. 
Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings — 

When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar — 
Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, 

H« a^irs the wheat with the steerage of his winga 



i\S THE MARINER'S CA VE. 



ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. 

A COTTAOKU loiitied wliispeiing by licr hives, 
'l\-lliiig the bt'c's sonic news, as thoy lit. dowiij 
And onlcri'd ono by one their "waxen town. 

Larks passioning lumg o'er their brooding wives, 

And all tl>e sniiny hills where heather thrives 
Lay satislied willi ])eaec. A stately crown 
Of trees enringed (lie npjier headland brown. 

And reedy ])Ools, wherein the nioor-hen dives, 

(jilittered and gleamed. 



tp 



A resting'phaee for light, 
They that were bred heie love il ; but they say, 

" Wo shall not have it hmg ; in three yearis' timfl 
A bundreil ])its will cast out tires by night, 
Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way, 

And the white ash be thick in lieu of rime." 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Once on ? time there walked a mariner, 

That liad been shi})wreeked, on a lonely shor*, 

And the green water made a restless stir, 
And a great Hock of news sped on before, 

Ke had nor foi)d nor shelter, for the tide 

Rose on the one, and clilfs on the other side. 

Brown cliflFs they wore ; they seem to ]>ierce the sky 
1'hat was an awfui deep cf empty blue, 

Save that the wind was in it, and on high 

A wavering skein of wild-fowl'traeked it through. 

He marked tliem not, but went with movement slow. 

Because his thoughts were sad. liis courage low. 



THE MARINER'S CA VE. 418 

His lieart wag nnnib, he iicitlicr wept nor sighed 

IJut wearifuUy liiit^cic'd by the wave ; 
Until at length it clianecKl that he espied, 

Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave, 
A slielter where to ssieep in liis (distress, 
And lose his sorro\v' iu forgetlulness. 

With tliat lie clambered up the rugged face 
Of thai steep cliff that all in shadow lay, 

And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, 
Comforting refuge for the castaway ; 

^ud he laid down his weary, weary head, 

And took his till of sleep till dawn waxed red. 

When he av;oke, warm stirring from the south 
Of delicate summer air did sough and flow ; 

He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth. 
He cast his eyes a little way below, 

Wliere <>n the narrow ledges, sharp and rude, 

PreeJiing their wings, the blue roek-])igeons cooecl 

Tlioi he looked lower and saw the lavender 
And sea-thrift blooming in long ci'evices, 

And the brOwn wall flower — April's messenger, 
The wallHower marshaled in her com|)anic%' 

Then lower yet he looked adown the steep, 

And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely disep. 

The laughing deep ; — and it was pacified 

As if it had not raged that other day. 
AthI it went murmuring in the morningtide 

Ininimerable llatte:-ies on its way, 
Ivissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet- 
With exquisite advancement, and retreat. 

This when the mariner beheld he sighed, 

And thought on fiis companions lying 
But while he gazed with eves unsatisfied 

On the fair readies of their overthrow, 
Thiidving it strange he only live<l of all, 
But not returning thanks, he heard a call! 



480 THE MARINER'S CA VE. 

A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth. 

He thought it came from out the cave. Aud, lo^ 

It whispered, " Man, look up ! " But he, forsooth, 
Answered, " I cannot, for the long waves flow 

Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies 

With all my riches and my merchandise. 

*' Moreover, 1 am heavy for the fate 

Of these ray mariners droAvned in the deep; 

I must lament me for their sad estate. 

Now they are gathered in their last long sleep, 

O ! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, 

Then how should I look up ! — I must look down." 

And he stood yet watching the fair green sea 
Till hunger reached l;im ; then he made a lire, 

A driftwood fire, and wandered listlessly 
And gathered many eggs at his desire, 

And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay 

And slept, and woke upon the second day. 

When as he said, " the cave shall be my home ; 

None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise 
Like castles of defense behind, — the foam 

Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies ; 
'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win, — 
The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. 

" For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse 

Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave, 

And in the sea is fish for sustenance. 
I will build up the entrance of the cave, 

And leave therein a window and a door, 

And here will dwell and leave it nevermore.'* 

Then even so he did ; and when his task. 
Many long days being over, was complete J 

When he had eaten, as he sat to bask 
In the red firelight glowing at his feet, 

He Avas right glad of slielter, and he said, 

" Now for my comrades am I comforted." 



THE MAKINER'S CA VE. 431 

Then did the voice awake and speak again ; 

It uiurmured, " Man, look up ! " But he replied. 
" I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain 
, Down on the red wood-ashes to abide 
Because they warm me." Then the voice was still. 
And left the lonely mariner to his will. 

And soon it came to pass that he got gain. 

lie had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, 
And drew great store of lish from out the main. 

And down from eider ducks ; and then he fi;*id, 
" It is not good that I should lead my life 
III silence, 1 will take to me a wife." 

He took a wite, and brought her home to him, 
And he was good to her and cherished her 

80 that she loved him ; then when light waxed ^iw 
Gloom came no more ; and she would minister 

To ail his wants ; while he, being well content. 

Counted her company right excellent. 

But once as on the lintel of the door 

She leaned to watch him while he put to sea. 

This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore. 
Said sweetly, "It is better now with me 

Than it was lately when I used to spin 

In my old father's house beside the lin." 

And then the soft voice of the cave awoke — 
The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile — 

And gently to the wife it also spoke, 

" Woman, look up ! " But she with tender gui^c 

Gave it denial, answering, " Nay, not so. 

For all that I should look on lieth below. 

"The great sky overhead is not so good 
For ray two eyes as yonder stainless sea. 

The source and yielder of our livelihood, 
Where rocks his little boat that loveth me.** 

This when the wife had said she moved away. 

And looked no higher than the wave all day. 



m Th^ Mariner's ca ve. 

Now when tlio year ran out a cliild fIic bore, 
And thcro wns such rcjciriiig in llic cavo 

As surely never liad lliere been before 

Since God lirst made it. Tlien full, sweet, ant 
grave. 

The voice, " God's utmost Llessing Lrinis thy cup, 

O, father of this child, look up, look up ! " 

"Speak to my Avife," the mariner replied. 

"I have much work — right welcome work 'tU 
true — 
Another mouth to feed." And then it nighed, 

" Woman, look up ! " She said, " Make no ado, 
For I must needs look down, t)n anywise. 
My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes.'* 

nio seasons of the year did swiftly whirl, 
They mc>asured time hy oue siiiall life alone •, 

On such a day the pretty pushing })earl 

That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, 

That smiling mouth, and it had made essay 

To give them names on such another day. ' 

And afterward his infant history. 

Whether he ))layed with baubles on the floor, 
Or crept to pat the rock-doves jfeckiiig nigh. 

And feeding on the threshold of the door, 
TlK>y loved to mark, and all his marvelings dim. 
The mysteries that beguiled and balUed him. 

He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, 
"O, child, how was it that I dwelt content 

Before thou camest ? lile.'sings on thy head, 
Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, 

That oft for all my joy, though it he deep. 

When thou art prattling, 1 am like to weep.** 

Summer and winter spent themselves again, 
The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff 

Grew sweety for every cleft would (iitertnin 
Its tuft of hlossom, and tiie marniei'*8 skiffj. 



THE MAklNEK'S CA VE. 428 

Eiirly anrl lato, would lincjor in tliobay, 
]iouau;:it3 llio Kcu wus umIiu jiiid wiiids uway. 

Tli3 litllo child about tliat rocky lioiplit, 

Led by her loving hand who ^.\\\.y liim birth; 

Mii^lit waixh-r in Lho ck'.ir unclouded i'ght,, 
And 'take his pastinu; in tho bcautcouH cnrfh ; 

Snic'Il tho lair lh)W(.'rs in stony cradles swunj.^, 

And sue God's l)apj)y creatures feed their young. 

And once it camo to pnss, at eventide, 
His niolher set him in the cavern (h»nr, 

And filled his l.ip with grain, and stood aside 
'1\) wat(!h the eii-cliiig rock-doves so,;r, and soar, 

Then dip, alight, and run in eircling bunds. 

To take the barley I'rom his open hands. 



T 



And even while she stood and gazed at Lilra, 
A/id his gr:iv(! father'H eyes upon liini dwel^ 

They lu'ard the tender voice, and it was dim, 
An 1 seemed full softly in the air to melt ; 

■^ Father," it miinntired, " JMolhei:," dyin/jaway, 

" Look ui), while yet the liours are called to-day.* 

" I will," the father answered, " but not now ; " 
The mother said, "Sweet voice, O speak to me 

At a convenient season." And the brow 
Of the cli/f began to quake right fearfully, 

There was a rending crash, and there did kap 

A riven rock and phiiige into the deep. 

They said, " A storm is coming ; " but tliey slept 
'i'hat night in ]»eace, and thought the storm had 
passed, 

For tliere was not a cloud fo inlercept 

Tlij sacred inoonlight on the cradle cast ; 

And to his rocking boat at dawn of d;;y, 

With joy of iieart the maiiner took his way. 



494 THE MAPINER'S CA VR. 

But when he mounted up the path at night, 
Foreboding not of trouble or miscliance, 

His wife came out into the fading light, 
And met hmi with a serious countenance ; 

And she broke out in tears and robbings thick 

" The child is sick, my little child is sick." 

They knelt beside him in the sultry dark, 

And when the moon looked in his face was pale^ 

And when the red sun, like a burning bark, 
Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail 

Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously 

They fell to chiding of their destiny. 

The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, 
Their pretty playmate Cared for tliem no more ; 

The sea-thrift nodded, wet witli glistening spray, 
None ijathered it ; the long wave washed the shore j 

He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace, 

The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. 

The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day, 
And hot calm airs sh^pt on the polished sea. 

The n)ournful mother Avore her time away, 
Bemoaning of her helpless misery. 

Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, 

" O look on me, my love, my little one. 

"What ailetli thee, that tliou dost He and moan? 

Ah ! would that I might bear it in thy stead.'* 
Die father made not his forebodings known. 

But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, 
" I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, 
But as for him, swpet blameless innocent, 

" What has he done that he is stricken down ? 

O it is hard to see him sink and fade, 
When I, that counted him my dear life's crown, 

So willingly have worked while he has played ; 
That he might sleep, have risen, come storyi, come heat, 
And thankfully would fast that he might eat." 



THE MARINER'S CA VE. 425 

My God, how short our happy days appear I 

How long the sorrowful ! They thought it long, 

The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer, 
And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong ; 

It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, 

Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. 

" Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank 1 g 
Wheirhe would moan and turn his restless head, 

And wearily the lagging morns would go, 

And nights, while they sat watching by his bed. 

Until a storm came up with wind and rain. 

And lightning ran along the troubled main. 

Over their heads the mighty thunders brake, 
Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock, 

Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake 
As they were living things and felt the shock ; 

The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, 

And all the midnight vault to ring again. 

A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave, 
But the blue lightning flashes made it dim ; 

And when the mother heard those thunders I'ave, ■ 
She took her little child to cherish him ; 

She took him in her arms, and on her breast 

Full wearily she courted him to rest, 

And soothed him long until the storm was spent, 
And the last thunder peal had died away, 

And stars were out in all the firmament. 

Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay, 

Wliije in welcome silence, pure and deep, 

The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. 

And in a dream, inwrought with fancies thick. 
The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo 

(She had forgotten that her child was sick), 

And she went forth their morning meal to strew • 

Then over all the cliff with earnest care 

She sought her child, and lo, he was not there I 



*36 7' HE MARINER'S CA VE. 

But slie was aot afraid, though long she eougbt 
Ami clmiboJ tlie clitf, and set luT foet in grass. 

Ilifii readied a river, hroatl and full, she thought. 
And at its brink he sat. Alas I alas ! 

For one stood near liini, fair and undefiled, 

An iinioeeiit, a marvelous man-child. 

In garments Avhite as wool, and O, most fair, 
A rainbow covered him wilh lny^lic light ; 

Uj-H)n the warmed grass his feet were hare, 
And as he breathed, the i-ainbow in her sight 

In passions of clear crimson tiHinbliiig lay, 

With gold and violet f\ist made fair the day. 

Her little life ! she thought, his little hands 
Were full of flowers that he did play withal ; 

But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands, 
And looked him in the face, he let tlum fall, 

Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise 

To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eycs. 

*' Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenost me, 
How sii ill my soul to this be reeoncilecl. 

It is the Saviour of thewoi-ld," quoth she, 
*' And to my child lie comet h as a child." 

Then on her knees she fell l)y that vrst stream — 

Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dre;>ra ! 

For In, that F.lder Child drew nearer now, 
I'^air as the liglit, and purer than the sun. 

The calms of heaven were brooding on his broW, 
Atid in his arms lie took her little one, 

Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur 

Drew back, nor held iiis hands to come to her. 

With that in mother misery Fore she wept — 
'"• O Lamb of God, I love my child S" much ! 

H» 'itole away to Thee while we two slejtt, 

But crive him hack, for Thou hast many such J 

Aud as for me I have but one. O deigti. 

Dear Pity ot God, to ^ive hira lue agaiq." 



A kLVERIB. ■ 427 

fli-' foot werp on the river. O, his feet 

Hill toiiciii'd ilie river now, and il was great ; 

An I yet, He hearkened when she did entreat, 
And turned in quietness as lie would wait — 

W.iit till slie looked upon Uini, and behold, 

Tiiero lay a lon<^ way off a oily of gold. 

I^ike to a jasper and a sardine stone, 

Wlielined in the raiiilto.v stood that fair man-child, 
Miuhty and innocent, that held her own. 

And as might be his ni inner at home he smiled, 
Th 'u wiiile she looked and looked, the vision brake, 
And all amazed she started up awake. 

And lo, her little ehlM was gone indeed ! 

The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, 
Folded to heaven's own heart ; in rainbow breoe 
Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned 
anil wepi, 
B it in tlio drinking of their hitter cup 
Tile 6\veet voice spoke onco more, and sighed. "Look 
up 1 " 

They heard, and straightway answered " Even so i 
For what abides tint W(? should lo >k on here? 

The heavens are better than this earth below, 
They are of more account and far more dear. 

We will look up, rv)r all most sweet and fair. 

Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there.** 



A REVERIE. 

When T do sit apart 

And commune with my heart, 
She brings me forth the rrensures once my own ^ 

Siidws me a liaj)py place 

Where leaf-buds swelled apache. 
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. 



Rock, in a mossv glade, 

Tlie larch-trees lend thee ehade, 
That just begin to feather with their leaves. 

From out thy crevice deep 

White tufts of snowdrops peep, 
And melted rime drips softly from thine eavea 

Ah, rock, I know, I know 

That yet thy snowdrops grow, 
And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree, 

Whose sheltering branches hide 

The cottage at its side. 
That nevermore will shade or shelter me. 

I know the (stockdoves' note 

Athwart the glen dotli float ; 
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, 

And longings onward sent, 

Slie broods before the event. 
While leisurely she mends her tshallow nest. 

Once to that cottage door. 

In hapi)y days of yore, 
My little love made footprints in the snow. 

She was so glad of spring. 

She helped the bii'ds to sing, 
I know she dwells there yet — the rest I do not know 

They sang, and would not stop, 

While drop, and drop, and drop, 
L heard the melted rim«> in sunshine fall ; 

And narrow wandering rills, 

Where l(>aned the datTodils, 
IMurmured and murmured on, and that was all 

I think, but cannot tell, 
I think she loved me well. 
And some dear fancy with my future twined. 



DEFTON WOOD. 429 



But I shall never know, 
Hope faints, and Ictw it go, 
That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. 



DEFTON WOOD. 

I HKLD ray way throuuh Dcfton "Wood 

And on to VVaiidor I lull ; 
The (lancing leal' let down the light, 
In hovering spots to fall. 
" O young, young leaves, you match me well,*^ 

My heart waw ineiry, and sung — 
" Novv wish mo joy of my sweet youth ; 
My love — she, too, is young I 

*' O so many, many, many 

Little homes above my head I 
O so mnuy, many, many 

Danciing blossoms round me spread ^ 
O so many, many, many 

Maidens sighing yet for none I 
Speed, ye wooers, *s])eed with any — 

Speed with all but one." 

I took my leave of Wandor TTaU, 

Ami trod the woodland ways. 
"What shall I do so long to bear 

The buvdcn of my days?" 
I siglied my licai't into the houghs 

Wlu'reby the culvers cooed ; 
For only I between them went 

Unwooing and unwooed. 



"is 



"O so many, many, many 
Lilies bending stately heads f 

O so many, many, many 

Strawberries ripened on their beds \ 



430 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 

O so ir any, many, many 

Mauls, anil \^\ my heart undone! 
What to nic are all, arc any — 

1 have lost uiv — oue." 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 
(/« Lichfield Cathedral), 

Marvkls of sleep, grown c«ld I 

Who hath not longed to fold 
With pitxini; ruth, forgetful of tbeir bliss, 

Those cherub forms that lie, 

W^ith none to wateh them nigli. 
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? 

What ! they are left alone 

All night with graven stone, 
Pillars and arches that above them meet ; 

While through those windows high 

The journeying stars can spy, 
And dim blue moonbeam^ drop on their uncovered 
feet? 

O cold I yet look again, 

There is a wandering vein 
Traced in the har.d where those white snowdrops lie. 

Let her rapt dreamy smile 

Tha wondering heart beguile, 
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. 

What silence dwells between 

Those severed lips serene 1 
The rupture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. 

What trance-like peace is shed 

On her reclining head. 
And e'eu on listless feet what languor of repoge I 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 431 

Angels of joy and love 

Lean softly from above 
And whisper to her sweet and marvelous things ; 

I'ell of the g()ld("n <>^ate 

That opened wide doth wait, 
Anci shadow her dim sleep with their celestial winga 

Hearing of that hlcst shore 

She thinks on earth no more, 
Contented to forego this wintry land. 

She has nor thought nor care 

But to rest calmly there, 
And hold the snowdroj)S pale that blossom in her hand. 

But on the other face 

Broodeth a mournful grace, 
This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, 

While sinking thus to sleep 

She saw her mother weep. 
And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sicfe 
tears. 

Co'dd not — but failing lay, 

Sighed her young life away, 
And let her arm drop down in listless rest. 

Too weary on that bed 

To turn her dying head, 
Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. 

Yet this is faintly told 

On features fair and cold, 
A look of cabn sur[)rise, of meek regret, 

As if with life oppressed 

She turned h' r to her rest, 
[Jut felt her mother's love and looked not to forget 

How wistfully they close, 
Sweet eyes, to their repose ! 
How quietly leclines the placid brow 1 



/ 

43S AN- ANCIENT CHESS KING. 

The young lips seem to say, 
" I have wept much to-day, 
And felt some bitter pains, but they are over noTV.^ 

Sleep ! there are left below 

Many who pine to go, 
M'^ny who lay it to their chastened souls, 

That gloomy days draw nigh, 

And they are blest who die, 
For this green world grows worse the longer that she 
rolls. 

And as for me I know 

A little of her woe, 
Her yearning want doth in my soul abide, 

And sighs of them that weep, 

" O put us soon to sleep, 
For when we wake — with Thee — we shall be satis, 
fied." 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 

Haply some Rajah first in the ages gone 
Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, 
While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he, 

Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison ; 

Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John 
Among his pastures, when full royally 
Pie sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee, 

While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. 

What dost thou here? Thy masters are all dead j 
My heart is full of ruth a'<d yearning pain 

At sight of thee ; O king that liast a crown 
Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled 

Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain 

And murmurs of the dark majestic town. 



THOUGH ALL' GREAT DEEDS. 48S 



COMFORT IN THE NIGIIT. 

"liE tliought by heaven's high wall that she did stray 

rill she beheld the everlasting gate : 

And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, 
Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay 
Iler lips to it with kisses ; thus to pray 

That it might open to her desolate. 

And lo ! it trembled, lo ! her passionate 
Crying prevailed. A little, little way 
It opened : there fell out a thread of light, 

And she saw winged wonders move within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant 
To comfort her. They said, " Who comes to-night 

Shall one day certainl}'^ an entrance win ; " 
Then the gate closed and she awoke content. 



THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. 

Though all great deeds were proved but fables fint, 
Though earth's old story could be told anew, 
Thoutijh the sweet fashions loved of them that sue 
Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrme — 
Though God did never man, in words benign, 
With sense of His great Fatherhood endue, — 
Though life immortal were a dream untrue. 
And He that promised it were not divine — 
Though soul, Jiougli spirit were not, and all hope 

Reaching beyond the bourn, melted away ; 
Though virtue had no goal and good no scope. 

But both were doomed to end with this our olay — 
Though all these were not, — to the ungraced heir 
Would this remain,^ to live, as though they were. 



4S4 THE LONG WJlITE SEaM. 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

As I came rouiul tlie liarbor buoy, 

The liglits bc'gini to gleam, 
No wave tlio laiul-loekcd w.iter stirred, 

The crags -were wlute as cream ; 
And I marked my love by taiulle-light 
Sewing her long white se:im. 
It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, 

Watch and steer at sea, 
It's reef and furl, and linnl the line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to reach her cottage door ; 

O sweetly my love : ings 1 
Like a shaft of liglit her voice breaks forthj 

JMy soul to meet it. t^prings 
As the shining Avater leaped of old, 
When stirred by antrel wings. 
Aye longing to list anew, 

A\\ake and in my dream. 
But never a song slie t:u!g like Ibis, 
Sewing her long wliile seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights. 

That brought me in to thee, 
And peace drop down on that low rooi 

For the sight that I did see. 
And the voice, niy dear, that rang so clear 
All for the love of me. 

For O, for (), M'ith lirows bent low 
By the eandleV ili( kering gleam. 
Her wedding gown it was she wrought^ 
•Sewing the long white seaui. 



AhT OLD Wipes song 43fi 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 



Axu ^hat will ye hoar, my dauirlitcM-a dear? — 
0!i, wh.it will y(' luMT this niulil '{ 

Shall I siuu; you a soiiij of ilic \ iiK'i.idc cheer, 
Oi" of lovt-rs aiul ladios bniihi ? 



&• 



"Thou shalt sin;^," f'^^'V '^^^ (f'^'" "'f dwell far away 
From th(! iaiid whcro fain would we he), 

" 'l'i)oij shall siiiijr us aijain some old-world strain 
That is SUM!' in out own countrie. 



o 



"Thou slialt mind us so of the times lonir aero. 

When we walked on the upi.ind lea, 
W lile the old harbor li-jlit waxed faint in the white 

Long rays shooting out from the sea ; 

" While hinds were yot, asleep, and the dew lay deep 
On the grass, and I heir fleeces clean and fair. 

Never grass was seen so.lhiei< nor so green 
As the grass that grew \\\\ the re ! 

" In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke - 
At our feet it lay still as si ill eould he ; 

And we saw far below the long river How, 
And the schooners a- warping out to sea. 

**STn/ us now a strain shall make us feel again 
As we felt in that sacred pea(!e of morn, * 

When Ave had the first view of the wet sparkling dew 
In the shyness of a day just born." 

So I sang an oM song — it was plain and not long — 
I had sung it very ofl when they were snjall ; 

And long ere it was done they wept every one : 
Yet this was all the soiig — this was all : — 



m COLL AXD QUIET. 

The snow acs white, and the moon gives ligW 

I'll O'lt to il)e freezing mere, 
And ease my heart with one little song, 

For none will be nigli to hear. 

And It's O my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 
When nobody's nigh to hear. 

My love is young-, ^lie is young, is young; 

Wlien she laughs the dimple dips. 
^Ve walked in I he wind, and her long loe^s blew 

Till sweetly they touched my lips. 

And I'll out to the freezing mere, 

"Where the stiff reeds whistle so low. 
And I'll tell my mind to the friendly Avind, 

Because I have loved her so. 

Ay, and she's true, my lady is true I 

And that's the best of it all ; 
And when she blushes my heart so yearns 

That tears are ready to fall. 

And it's O ray love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wnld Avoods ring; 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 



COLD AND QUIET. 

Cold, my dear, — C(dd and quiet. 

Ill their cups on yonder lea. 
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet ; 

So the moss infoldetli thee. 

" Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower — 
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree. 

And when our children sleep," she sighed, " at the 
dusk hour, 
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me I " 



A SiVO W MO UN TA /A'. 43? 

Lost, ray doar ! Lost ! nay, deepest 

Love is that \vliicli loseth least ; 
Tliroiigli the night-time M'liile thou sleepeet, 
Still 1 watch the shrouded east. 
N'ear thee, near thee, my wife aye liveth, 

" Lost " is no word for such a love as mine ; 
Love from lier past to me a present giveth, 

And love itself doth comfort, making ];ain divine 

Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth 
That which was, and not in vain 
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth. 
Love's last w^ords at ween us twain. 
" Hold by our past, my only love, my lover ; 
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me ! " 
Boughs from our garden, v/hite with bloom hang over 
Love, now the children slumber, 1 come out to thee 



A SNOW MOUNTAIN. 

Can I make whte enough my thought for thee, 

Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate 
To sit aloft in the silence silently 

And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. 
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he 

Stood Avith his old white head, surprised at fate \ 
Alone as Galileo, when, set free, 

Jiefore the stars he mused disconsolate. 
Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song. 

Groat misters ^v\v^ liavc mile us what we are. 
For thou and they have taught us hov/ to long 

And feel a sacred want of tlie fair and far : 
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire — 
Our only greatness is that we aspire. 



438 PROMISING. 

SLEEP. 
(a woman bpeaks.) 

O SLtKP, we are beholden to thee, sleep, 
Tiiou bearesi angels to us in the night, 

Saints out of heaven with paims. Seen by thy 
light 

Sorrow is some old talc that goeth not deep ; 

Love is a ])outing child. Once I did sweep 
Through space with thee, and h), a daz/ling sight — 
Stars I They came on, I felt their drawing and 
might ; 

And some had dark companions. Once (I weep 

When I remember that) we sailed the tide, 

And found fair isles, where no hills used to bide, 
And met there my lost love, who said to me, 

iliat "'twas a long itiistalce : he had not died. 
Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be 
Never to want, never to wish for thee 1 



PROMISING. 
(a man speaks.) 

Oncb, a new world, the sun-swart marinere, 

Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, 
Ungraced, unhelped, uidieard for many a year j 

But let at last to make his i)romise good. 
Promised and promising I go, most dear. 

To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, 
My life with its most reverent ho})e and fear. 

And my religion, with fair gratitude. 
O we must part ; the stars for me contend, 

And all the winds that blow on all the seas, 
Through wonderful waste places I must wend, 

And with a promise my sad soul appease. 
Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss : 
But — ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. 



HENRY, ^ 



LOVE. 



Who veiloth love should first have vnnqnished fete. 
yiie toldi'd ii|) ihe dream in her deep heart, 
Her fair full lips were silent oti that smart, 

Tliiek fringed eyes did on the ji^iasses wa t. 

Wli It u;o()d ? one elocjueut hhish, but one, and straight 
The meaning of a life was known ; for art 
Is often foiled in playini; nature's part, 

And time holds nothing long inviolate. 

Ear'h's buried seed springs up — slowly, or fast : 

The ring eame home, that one in ages ])ast 
Flung to the keeping of unfatiionied seas : 
And golden apples on the mystic trees 

Were sought and found, and borne away at last. 
Though watched of the divine Ilesperides. 



Poems Written on the Deaths of Tliree Lovely Chtl- 
dren xnho were taken from their Parents within a 
month of one another. 



HENRY. 

AGED EIGHT YEARS. 

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland hoi- 
lows thickly strewing. 
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the 
mid-day win, 
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in sad- 
dened hues imbuing 

All without and all within ! 

All within ! but winds of autumn, little Henry, roun(J 
their dwelling 



440 HENRY. 

Did not load your father's spirit with those deep 
and burdened sighs ; — ■ 
Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's 
bosom swelling, 

Fast as tears that dim her eyes. 

Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sor 
row and mutation, 
But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before 
to know : — 
1 behold them — father, mother — as they seemed to 
contemplation, 

Only three short weeks ago I 

Saddened for the morrow's parting — up the sturs at 
midnight stealing — 
As with cautious foot we glided past the children's 
open door, — 
** Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled 
forms at last rcAealing, 

" Kiss them in their sleep once more.'* 

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids 
scarcely closing. 
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded 
arms entwined : — 
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in 
their reposing 

By the movements of the mind ! 

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleep- 
ing treasures numbered. 
Whispering fondly — " He is dreaming " — as you 
titrned upon your bed — 
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, 
as you slumbered, 

Witli his hand upon your head ! 

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing 1 
No ! be never 



Heard afar the sumuioiis uttered — " Come up 
liither " — !Never knew 
ffOTv :]\o awful Angel faces kept his sleeping hoy for- 

ever, 

And forever in their view. 

Awfid Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were 

hy us. 
Shrouding wings — majestic heings — hidden hy this 

earthly veil — 
Such as we have called on, sayhig, " Praise the Lord, 
O Ananias, 

Azarias, arid Misael ! " 

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the mis- 
sioned Spirits taught him, 
To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left 
him to their will ? 
While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams 
they ma\ have hn ught him, 

When at midnight all was still ? 

Father ! Mother ! must you leave him on his bed, but 
not to slumber ? 
Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, 
but not to pray ? • 

When you count your children over, must you tell a 
different number, 

Since that happier yesterday ? 

Father ! Mother ! weep if need be, since this is a 
"time" for weeping, 

Oomfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued 
down — - 

(boldly sounds the admonition, " Why lament ? in bet- 
ter keeping 

Rests the child than in your own." 

"Truth indeed I but, oh ! compassion ! Have you 
sought to scan my sorrow ? " 



«4S HENR Y. 

(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that 
foninion tale) 
" Does 3^our heart rej^eat its echo, or by fellow-feeling 
borrow 

Even a tone that might avail ? 

"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart, 
wai'iii affection ? 
Might ])erceive by strength of loving how the fond 
\\ ovds to combine ? 
Surely no ! I w.ll l)e silent, in your soul is no relBection 
Of the care that burdens mine ! '' 

When the winter twiliglit gathers, Father, and youi 
thoughts shall 'wnndcr, 
Sitting lonely you shall blena \\u<\ with your list« 
less reveries, 
Half forgetful what divisior. kolJa the form whereon 
you ponder 

From its pl&c^r upon your knees — 

With a start of recollection, with a half reproachful 
wonder, 
Of its*. If the heart shall question, " Art Thou then 
no longer here ? 
Is it so, my little Henry ? Arc we set so far asundei 
Yv'ho were wont tu be so near ? " 

While the tire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthci'eo' 
shades are meeting, 
To itself the lieait shad answer, " lie shall come to 
me no more : 
I shall never hear his footuteps nor the child's sweet 
voice entreating 

For adniissitjn at my door." 

But upon ?/o/rr fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs 
are dwelling, 
Neither sorrow nor disqii ml do the peaceful features 
know ; 



SAMUEL. 443 

Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad 
hearts to be toUiutif, 

" Daylight breaketh, let me go !" 

Daylight breaketh, little Henry ; in its beams your 
soul awakoth — 
Wliat though night should close around us, dim and 
dreary to the view — 
Though our souls should 'v'alk in darkness, far away 
that morning breaketh 

Into endless day for you 1 



SAMUEL, 

AGED NINE YEARS. 

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not 
left you lonely — 
Brother's hearts so knit together could not, might 
not separate dwell. 
Fain to seek you in the mansions far away — One lin- 
gered only 

To bid those behind farewell ! 

Gentle Boy l^— His childlike nature in most guileless 
form was molded, 
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory un- 
aware. 
Since so calmly he resigned it, wnth his hands still 
meekly folded, 

'Having said his evening prayer. 

Or — if conscious of that summons — " Speak, O Lord, 
Tliy servant heareth " — 
As one said, whose name they gave him, might his 
willing answer be, 
^' Here am [ " — like him replying — " At Thy gates my 
soul appt^ai-cth. 

For behold Thou callest me I " 



444 SAMUEL. 

A deep silence — utter silence, on his earthly home 
descendeth : — 
Reading, playing, sleeping, waking — he is gone, 
and few remain ! 
*' O the loss ! " — they utter, weeping — every voice its 
echo lendeth — 

" O the loss J " — But, O the gain .' 

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an , 
early landing, 
Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall 
of guilt control — 
Lest that " wickedness should alter the yet simple un- 
derstanding, 

Or deceit beguile his soul ! " 

"Lay not up on earth thy treasure" — they have read 
that sentence duly. 
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches — earthly good 
hath swift decay — 
"Even so," each heart replieth — "As for me, my 
riches truly 

Make them wings and flee away ! " 

" O my riches ! — O my children ! — dearest part of 
life and being. 
Treasures looked to for solace of this life's declin- 
ing years, — 
Were our voices cold to hearing — or our faces cold to 
seeing. 

That he left us to our tears ? " 

" We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry 
laughter. 
And the hush of two sweet voices — (healing sounds 
for spirits bruised !) 
Of the treud of joyous footsteps in the pathway fol- 
lowing after, 

Of two names no longer used \ " 

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and 
childish fashion — - 



SAMUEL. iA 

Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your 
calm and asking eyes — 
■pimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad com- 
passion, 

Mild regret or dim surprise 1 

ITiere are two tall trees above you, by the high east 
window growing, 
Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence 
deep, serene ; 
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes to- 
wards you flowing 

Echo — with a pause between I 

And that pause? — a voice shall fill it — tones that 
blessed you daily, nightly, 
Vv^ell beloved, but not sutticing. Sleepers, to awake 
you now. 
Though so near he stand, that shadows from your 
trees may tremble lightly 

On his book and on his brow ! 

Sleep then ever ! Neither singing of sweet birds shall 
break your slumber. 
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, 
nor drift of snow. 
Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tran- 
quil bosoms cumber 

With one care for things below I 

.t is something, the assurance that you ne'er shall 
feel like sorrow. 
Weep no past and dread no future — know not 
sighing, feel no pain — 
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to- 
morrow — 

" Clouds returning after rain ! " 

Ko, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each 
soul awaketh : 



4!:6 KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 

•'What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered 
dark and stormy to the vieAV, 
riiough the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet 
behold it breakcth 

Into endless day for you 1 " 



KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 

(asleep in the daytime.) 

All rough winds are husLed and silent, golden light 
the n»ead()W steepoth, 
And the last October roses daily wax more pale and 
fair ; 
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of 
one who slccpeth • 

With a sunbeam on her hair. 

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment &he lies still, as 
one that dreameth, 
And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips 
that may not speak ; 
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of 
glory gleameth 

On the sainted brow and cheek. 

There is silence ! They who w^atch her, speak no 
word of grief or wailing, 
In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and 
cannot cease, 
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink 
back, and hope be failing, 

They, like Aaron, " hold their peace." 

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long 
slow ]jaus»s soundeth ; 
Long they hcniken — father — mother — love has 
nothing more to say : 



KATIE. AGEr> FIVE Vi:ARS. 441 

Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where leva 
abouncleth 

Tolls the heavy bell this day. 

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her 
meetness 
To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sor 
rows and all fears ; 
Her short life lies spread before them, but they can ' 
not tell her sweetness, 

Easily as tells her years. 

Only daughter — Ah! how fondly Thought around 
that lost name lingers, 
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep 
and droop her head, 
She shall mourn her baby-seamstress, with those ira- 
itative fingers, 

Drawing out her aimless thread. 

In your father's Future comcth many a sad uncheered 
to-morrow, 
But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm 
towards him lean — 
Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the 
weariness of sorrow, 

Nearer to the things unseen. 

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams <>! 
expectation. 
And so ends the fairest chapter in the records .A , 
their way : 
Therefore — O thou God most holy — God of rest and 
consolation. 

Be Thou near to them this day ! 

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed 
of infant brothers. 
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless 
them on their knees ; 



448 KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 

And shall think how coldly falleth the white mooa 
light on the others, 

In their bed beneath the trees. 

lie Thou near, when they, they only, bear those faces 
in remembrance, 
And the number of their children strangeis ask 
them with a smile ; 
And wlien other childlike faces touch them by lh« 
strong resemblance 

To tlioso turned to them erewhile. 

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and 
conflict nerving, 
Let thy voice say, " Father — mother — lo ! lliy 
treasures live above ! 
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over 
much with serving 

At the shrine of human love." 

Let them sleep ! In course of ages e'en the Holy 
House shall crumble. 
And the broad and stately steejjle one day bend to 
its decline, 
And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in 
clothing humble, 

Creejjing moss shall round them twine. 

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall 
glimmer through them. 
And invest them with a l)cauty we Avould fain they 
should not share. 
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white 
moonlight shall imbue tliim 

With a sadness dim and lair. 

Then the soft green m' ss shall w'rap you, and the 
world shall all forget you. 
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall 
pass you by ; 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 448 

G^enerationg come and vanish : but it shall not griere 
nor fret you, 

That they siu, or that they sigh. 

And the workl, growing old in sinning, shall deny her 

first beginning, 
And think scorn of words which whisper how that all 

must pass away ; 
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vaiu 

tradition, 

And a dream, the reckoning day 1 

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame 

and sadness 
Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and 

skies, 
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout 

of joy and gladness, 

Call the dead in Christ to rise I 

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from 

their transgression, 
Father — mother — you shall meet them fairer than 

they were before, 
And have joy with the Redeemed, joy ear hath not 

heard — 'heart dreamed, 

Ay foreVHjr — evermore I 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 
I. 

MARGARET BY THE MERE FIDB, 

1-TiNG imbedded in the green champaign 
That gives no shadow to thy silvery face. 

Open to all the heavens, and all their train, 

The marshaled clouds that cross with stately pftoe, 

No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, 

N<)r waver with the dimpling of thy breast. 



460 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

O, silent Mere ! about whose marges sjiring 
riiick bulrushe.s to hide the reed-bird's nasi j 

Where the ^hy o'.isel dips her gloss i^ ^^''"gj 
And bahmc-ed in the water taken her rest : 

While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, 

Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade : 

SVarm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, 
, And the greensward conies creeping to thy brink, 
And golden saxifrage and pimpernel 

Lean down to thee their })erfiuned heads to drink ^ 
And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend 
White clover, and beneath thy wave descend.: 

While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide 

On a long eddy of the lightsome air 
Over tlie level mead to thy lone side, 

Doth lose i'self among thy zephyrs rare, 
With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut tiaj; 
And blooming orchards lying far away. 

Thou liast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm 
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then 

There is a sound of bells, a far-off psaim 
From g!ay ciiurch towers, that swims across the 
fen ; ^ 

And the light sigh where grass and water meet, 

Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. 

Thon hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod 
Diinj»le thy surface seldom ; though tlie oar 

Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, 
Nor send long ripples to ihy lonely shore; 

Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace 

The smile of nature moving on thy face ; 

Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'INIid the cold 

Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee^ 

And, keeping thee in mind, \\w'w wings unfold, 
And shape their course, high soaring, till ihej se» 



THE TV/0 MARGARETS. 4K 

Down in the worM, like molten silver, rest 

Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast 

Fair IMarp^aret, who sittest Jiil Hay loner 
On ihe gray stone beneath the sy< ainoro, 

Thi3 l)o\veriiig tree wiili biMiiciies lithe and strong, 
'I'lie Quly one to griioe the level shore, 

Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient chee 

Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mei'e ? 

Thou oanst not tell, thou dost not l<now, alas I 
Long watchings leave bfliind them little trace; 

And yet how sweetly must the mornings |)ass, 
Th it bring tl'.at dreamy ealinness to thy face t 

ITow quickly must the evenings come that dnd 

Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind . 

Thy cheek is resting on thy hand ; thine eyes 
Arc like twin viol.'ts but half unclosed. 

And quiet as the deeps in yonder .-kies. 
Never more peacefully in love resposod 

A mother's gaze upon Iilm* offspring dear, 

'L'hau thii;e upon ilie long far-strtiching Mere. 

Sweet innocent I Thy yellow hair floats low 

In ripp.ing iiu'lulations on thy bre-ist. 
Then stealing down the parte<l lovedocks now, 

IJathed \xt i. sunbeam on thy knees to icst. 
And touch those idle hands that foMed lit, 
Ha>r:ng from sport and toil a like imnuinity, 

Througli thy life's dream with what a toiuihing grao^ 
Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown j 

Her dim])les linger yet upon thy face, 
Like dews upon a lily this day blown , 

Thy sighs are liorn of peace, unriifUcd, deep ; 

So the babe sighs on mother's breast askep. 

It sighs, and wakes, — but thou ! thy dieam is all 
Ami thou wert born for it, and it for thee ; 

Morn doth not take thy !i(>art, nor even-fail 
Charm out its sorrowful fidelity. 



yra THh TWO MAkGARRTS. 

Noi noon f)('i»-.iile thoe from the pnstoral shora^ 
And ihy lojig waicli Itcnculli the Bycamore. 

No, down 'he Mere, as far ns eye ca'i pee, 
Wlit-rt.' ils long readies fade into llie sky, 

Thy constani gaze, fair child, rests lovingly ; 
Bui neither thou nor any can descry 

Aught hut the grassy banks, the rustling sedge. 

And tiocks of wild-fowl, sj)lat>hing at their edga 

And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed 

That thy mute rosy nioutii doth pouting close '. 

No fluttering iiope to thy young heart e'er rushed 
Nor disappointment troubled its repose ; 

All satisfied with gazing evermore 

Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. 

The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, 

Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing v/ing ; 

The timid siieep browse close befoi'e thy feet, 
And he(Mlless at thy side do thrushes sing, 

So long amongst them thou has spent thy days, 

They know that harmless hand thou wilt not rais* 

Thou wilt not lift it up — not e'en to take 
The foxijlove bells tiiatflouriKh in the shade. 

And |)ut them in thy bosom ; not to make 
A posv of wild iiyacinth inlaid 

Like bright mo>-aic in the mossy grass. 

With freckled orchis and pale sassairas. 

Gaze on ; — take in the voices of the Mere, 
The break of siiallow «ater at thy feet. 

Its splash among long reeds and grasses i-ere. 
And its weinl sol»bing, — hollow music meet 

For ears like thine ; listen and take thy fill, 

And dream on it by night, when all is still. 

Full sixteen years have slowly passed away. 

Young Mai"garet, since thy fond moiher hert 
Cauie down, a six months' wife, one April day, 



•^•y^ TPVO MARGARETS. 468 

To see ber husband's boat go down the Mere, 
And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, 
In mellow light it faded from her view. 

It faded, and she never saw it more ; — 

Nor any human eye ; — oh, grief I oh, woe I 

It f ided, — and returned not to the shore; 
IJ'.it far above it still llie waters flow — 

And none beheld it sink, and none could tell 

"Where cohlly slept the form she loved so well I 

Bat that sad day, unknowing of her fate, 

She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet ; 

And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late, 

The evening fell ; — the time when they should 
meet ; — 

Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned — 

And morning dawned, and he was not returned. 

And the bright sun came up, — she thought lotf 
soon, — 

And shed his ruddy light along the Mere ; 
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon 

She came and wept beside the waters clear. 
"How could he be so late ?" — and then hope fied ; 
And disappointment darkened into dread. 

He NEVER camp, and slie with weepings sore 
Peered in the water-flags unceasingly ; 

Through all the undulations of the shore. 

Looking for that which most she feared to see. 

And then she took home sorrow to her heart. 

And brooded over its cold, cruel smart. 

And after, desolate she sat alone 

And mourned, refusing to be comforted, 

On the gray stone, the moss-embroidt- red stonr 
With the great sycamorn above her head j 

Till after many days a Vjroken oar 

Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. 



4M THE TWO MARGARETS. 

It came, — a token of 1^8 late, — the whole, 
The pum of hei- misfortune to reveal j 

As if sent up in pity to her soul, 

The tidings of her widowhood to Pcal ; 

And put away the pining ho))e forlcin, 

That made her grief more bitter to be borne 

And she was patient ; through the vreary day 

SShe toik^d ; though none "v^as there her work t. 
bless, 

And did not wear the sullen months away, 
Nor call on death to end her wrc tch.edrcss, 

But lest the grief should overflow Ixr breast, 

She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. 

But, her work done, what time the evening star 
Rose over tiie cool water, then t^he came 

To the gray stone, and saw its light ironi far 

Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, 

And wondered whether there might be the place 

Where the soft ripple wandered o'er iiis face. 

Unfortunate I In solitude forlorn 

She dwell, and thougiit ujion her husband's grave, 
Til! when the days grew short a child was boru 

To the dead father undenuath the wave ; 
And it brought back a nn.nant of delight, 
A little sunshine to its mother's sight ; 

A little wonder to her heart grown numb, 
And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen : 

She took it as fioiii thai poor father come, 
Her and the misery to stand between \ 

Her little maiden babe, who day by day 

Sucked at her bieast and charmed her woes a^pay 

But years flew on ; the child was si ill the same, 

Nor human language she had Icjirned to epeak \ 
Her li|)s were mute, and seasons went and came, 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 49 

And bronpfht fresh beauty to her tender cheek } 

And all the (lay ii|ion ihe siitiny ^ho^e 
Sii3 sal and mused beneath the sycamore. 

Strange sympatliy ! she wr.tclied and wearied not^ 
ll.ijjly uncDiiscior.s what it was she sought ; 

Iljr mother's tale she easily forgot, 

And if she listened no \vai-m tears it brought ; 

Thoiigli surely in the yearnings of her heart 

The unknown voyager must have had his part. 

Unlcnown to her; likeall she saw unknown, 
All sights were fresli when as they first began, 

AH sounds were new ; each murmur and each tone 
And cause an I consequence she could not scan, 

Forgot tint niglit brouglit darkness in its train, 

Nor reasoned that the day would come again. 

There is a happiness in past regret ; 

And eo;io;3i of the harshest sound are sweet. 
The mother's soid was struidi with grief, and yet, 

Rejjeated in lier child, 'twas not unmeet 
That echo-like the grief a tone shoidd take 
Painless, but ever pensive for lier sake ; 

For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked 
Bv ties so laauy to the babe unborn ; 

Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, 
Foi-ever;n )re had left her child forlorn, 

i''et left no consciousness of want or woe, 

Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. 

Truly her joys were limited and few, 

But they sufficed a life to satisfy, 
That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew. 

But breathed the air in a greai harmony 
With its own place and pan, and was at one 
With all it knew of earth and moon and sua. 



#56 THE TWO MAkGARETS, 

For all cf them were worked into the dream, 
The husky siglis of wheat-fields in ii wrought J 

All the Ian<l-miles belonged to it ; tlie stream 
That fed the Mere ran through it l^kea thought 

It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait 

'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate j 

To wait with her alone ; always alone : 
For any that drew near she heeded not, 

Wanting them little as the lily grown 
Apart from others, in a shady |)lot, 

"Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, 

Iij her still glen to bear her company. 

Always alone : and yet, there was a child 

Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, 

Across the lea woidd roam to where, inislcd 

And fenced in rnpturous silence, went lur hours, 

And, with slow footstej)s drawn anear llie place 

Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face. 

And wonder at her with a childish awe, 
And come again to look, and yet again. 

Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw 
His longing to itself ; while her in train 

The water-hen, come forth, would bi'ing uer brood 

Froni slumbering in the rushy solitude ; 

Or to their young would curlews call and clang 
Their homeless young that down the furrows creej. _ 

Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, 
Still as a rock set in thn watery deep. 

Then from her presence he would break away, 

Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day. 

But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet, 

And a strange joy from its sweet wilderness caught ; 

Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, 

And *' shut the gates " of silence on her thought, 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 45? 

All through spring mornings gemmed with melted 

rime, 
All ihruugb hay-harvest and through gleaning time, 

O pleasure for itself that l)oyhoo(l makes, 
() happiness to roam the sighing shore, 

Plow up with eltin craft the waier-tiakes, 
And track ihe nested rail with cantious oar j 

Then floating lie and louk witli wdndtr nevv 

Straight up in the great dome of light and blua 

O pleasure I yet they took him from the wold, 
The reedy Tvlere, and all his [lasiime there. 

The place where he was bui'n, and Wnuld grow old 
If God his life so many years should spare ; 

From the loved haunts of childhood nnd the plain 

And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. 

And he came down when whent was in the sheaf, 
And with her fruit ilie ap|>k'-hrancli henl low. 

While yet in Augiisl glory hung ihe leaf, 
And flowerless aftorniaLh brgan to grow ; 

ITe came from his gray turrets to the shore, 

And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. 

He sought her, not because her tender eyes 
Would brighten at hiG coming, for he knew 

Full seldom any thought of him would rise 

in lier fair breast wl»en he had passed from view 

But for his own love's sake, that unite guiled 

Drew him in spirit to the silent child. 

For boyhood in its better hour is prone 

To reverence wh 't it hath not understood ; 

Au'l he had thought sonit- heavenly meaning shone 
From her clear eyes that madetheir » atchings good ,* 

While a great peaceful!. i-ss of sha-ic was shed 

Like oil of cousecraiiou on tier uead. 



M IHB two MARGARETS, 

A fishing wallet from ln3 shoulder slnng, 

Wiih bounding foot he reached Uic mossy place^ 

A little niurneiil gently o'er her hung, 

Put back litr hair and looked upon her face, 

Then fain from that deep dream to v.ako lier yet. 

He " JMargarel 1 " low murmured, '' Margaret 1 

"Look at me once before T leave the land, 

For I am going, — going, Miirgaret." 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, 

Laid it along his young fiesh cheek, and set 
Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes, 
Aud moved it back from her in troubled wise, 

Because he came between her and her fate, 

Tlie JMcre. She sighed again as one oppressed \ 

The waters, shining clear, with delicate 

Ki'ilections wavered on her blameless breast ; 

And througli the branches dropt, like flickering fair, 

And played upon her bauda and on her hair. 

And lie withdrawn a little space to see, 

Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, 

" Farewell, I go ; but sometimes think of me, 
Maid Margaret ;" and there came by again 

A whimpering in the reed-beds ;iii(l the sway 

Of waters : then he turned and went his way. 

And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? 

No ; thou wilt gaze : though thy young eyes grow 
dim, 
hvi^ thy soft cheek becomes all pale and wan, 

Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him J 
There is no sweetnees in his laugh for thee — 
No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. 

But wuerefore linger in deserted haurts? 

Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? 
The yellow iris on tne margin flaunts, 

With hyacinth the banks are blue in springi 



r/TM rJVO MJMCA/?£TS. 4S4 

An(l utiflPT dappled clouds the lark afloat 
Pours ail the April-tide from her sweet throat 

But M:irgar.-t — all ! thou art there no more, 

All.! thick dank moss creeps over tliv gray stont { 

Ti:v path is lost that «kirted the low shore, 
WJLii will(>w-gras>! and speedwell overgrown; 

Thine eye has closed forever, and thine ear 

Drinks in n > more the nmsio of the Mere. 

The boy shall come — shall come again in spring, 
Wen'p!ea^ed thai pastoral solitude to share, 

And some kind offering in his hand will bring 
To cast into ihy lap, () maid most fair — 

Some claspiiKr gem abont thy neck to lest, 

Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. 

And he shall wonder why thou art not here 
T.he solitude with "smiles to entertain," 

And gaze along ihe the reaches of the Mere; 
l»Mt he shall never see thy face again — 

Shall never see upon the ready shore 

Maid Mar";aret beneath her svcamore. 

II. 

MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 

[ "Concorning tltismnn (Robert Ddacour), little further !s 
known III. in ilr.it, in; Kiivcd in tin; kinii'sniniy, and was wcund- 
ed in tiic I'.-iitiu of Mii'sio 1 Mi'or, l)L'in<i liicn iibont tvvcniy- 
sevi'n - ears of ane. Alicr tlio biillle of Nusebv. (inding him- 
seif a marked man, lie quilled llie comilry. taking witli liira 
tlieciiild wlioin lie iia I aiiopled; luut lie nride in.iny voyages 
bciwt'cu llie diifcient purls of llio Alediierraiieau and Levant."] 

Resting within his tent at turn of day, 
A wailin'jT voice his scanty sleep beset : 

lie started up — it did not flee away — 

'Tw;*s no part of his dream, but still did fret 

And pine mto his heart, " Ah me ! ah me 1 ** 

Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. 



460 THE TWO MARGARETS, 

TluMi he rose, and, troubled at tliis thing, 
Aii wearily toward the voice he went 

Ovir the down-trod bracken and the ling, 
['ntil it l>rotight him to a soldier's tent, 

Where, with the tears iijton her face, he found 

A little maiden weeping on the ground; 

And backward in the tent an aged crone 
Ulibraided her full harshly more and more, 

Bill sunk her chiding to an undcitone 

When she beheld him standing at the door. 

And calmed iier voice, and dropped her lifted han4 

And answered hira with accent soft and bland. 

N(\ the young child was none of hers, «she said, 
But she had found her where the ash lay white 

About a smoldering tent ; her infant head 
All shelterless, she through the dewy night 

Had slumbered on the field, — ungentle fate 

For a lone child so soft and delicate. 

" And I," quoth she, " have tended her with care. 
And thought to be rewarded of her kin, 

For by her rich attire and features fair 
I know her birth is gentle : yet within 

The tent uncbaimed she doth but pine and weep, 

A burden 1 would fain no longer keep." 

Still wliile she spoke the little cre.iture wept, 
Till painful pitv touched hiui for the liow 

Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept 
A yearning as of fatlu'vliood, and lo ! 

Reaching his arms to her, " JMy sweet," quoth h« 

" Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me ?" 

Then she left off her crying, and a look 
Of wistful wonder stole into lir- eyes. 

The sullen frown her dimpled fa(K' i'orsook, 
Sl)e let him tako her, ajid fm-got iier sigha* 

Contented in his alien arm-; to rest, 

And lay her baby head upon his breast. 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 461 

All, sure a stranger trust was never sought 

l>y any soldier on a hattlc-plain. 
Ill' l)i-()ugljt lier to [lis tout, and S(iot,ln.'d liis voice, 

Roiigli with command ; and aNked, hut all in vail 
Ili'r story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, 
Siiu playing, as one at home, about his feet. 

Of race, of country, or of parentage, 

Her lisping accents nothing could unfold ;— 

No (jueslionlng could win to read the p:ige 
Oi' lier short life ; — she left her tale untold, 

\nd home and kin thus early to forget, 

^he oidy knew — her name was — Margaret. 

riion ill the dusk upon his arm it chanced 
That night that smhK'uly she fell asleep ; 

A.nd he looked <lown on her like one entranced. 
And listened to her breathing still and deep, 

/\s if a little child, when daylight elo ed, 

^Vith half-shut lids iiad ne'er before reposed. 

Softly he laid her down from off his arm, 
With earnest care and new-born tenderness ; 

Ili'r infani-y, a wonderworking charm, 

Laid li<dd upon his love ; he stayed to bless 

Tlio sm dl sweet head, then went he forth that night 

And sought a nur>e to tend this new delight. 

And day by day his heart slu' wrought u])on, 
And won her way into its inmost fold — 

A hc.irt which, but for lack of that whereon 
'I'o hx itself, would never have been cold ; 

An I, opening wide, now let, liei' come to dwtill 

Within its strong unguarded citadel. 

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs 
Of his past thoughts, and set their curient free 

To talk with him of half-forgotten things — 
Th' piireness an i the pe ;ce of infancy, 

"Thou aUo, thoii," lo sigh, ■' u crt undeiiled 

(O God, the change \) once, as this little child." 



tea TtllL TWO MARGARETS, 

The baby-mistress of a soldier's lieart, 
She had l)ut frieiidlcysness to stand her friend. 

And her owi orphanhood to plead her part, 
When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend, 

And hear wiih him the starry blossom sweet 

Out of ils jrwpardy from trampling feet. 

A sjleani of light upon a rainy day, 

A new-tied knot that must be severed sooDy 

At sunrise once befoi e bis tent at ])lay, 
And hurried from the battle-fidd at noon, 

AVhile f;K'o lo. laec m hostile ranks they stood, 

Who should have dwelt in peace and brotberbood. 

But ere the fight, wb.on higher rose ibe sun, 
And yet were distant far the icbel bands. 

She heard at intervals a booming gun, 

And s!ie was pleased, and laughnig clapped hei 
bands ; 

Till be came in witb troubled look and tone. 

Who chose her desolate to be bis ovvn. 

And be said, " Little nsadam, now farewell, 
For there will be a battle fought ere night. 

God be thy shield, for He alone can tell 

Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. 

To fitter bands the care of thee pertain, 

My dear, if we two never meet again." 

Then be gave money sbortly to licr nurse. 
And charged her straitly to de])art in haste, 

And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse 
Of war should liglit wiih ruin, dentb, and waste. 

And ai\ the ills that must its ]iresence blight, 

E'en if proud victory should bless tbe right. 

" But ii tbe rebel cause should pros]>cr, then 
It were not good iimong the hills to wend ; 

But journey through to Boston in the feii, 
Aud wait for peace, if peace our God shall Bend } 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 468 

Anrl if my life is spared, T will essay," 
Quoth he, " to join you there as best I may." 

So then he kissed the child, and went his way ; 

But many troubles rolled above his head ; 
Tlie sun arose on many an evil day, 

And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed 
And lio])e was lost, and loyal hearts were fain 
In dust to hide, — ere they two met again. 

So ])assed the little child from thouirht, from view — 
(The snovvdrop blossoms, and then is not theie, 

Fori^otten till men welcome it anew). 
He found her in his heavy days of care, 

And with her dimples was again beguiled, 

As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. 

And he became a voyager by sea. 

And took the child to share his wandering state ; 
Since from his native land compelled to flee, 

And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate ; 
For all was lost that might have made him pause. 
And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. 

And th.us rolled on long days, long months andyeaWi 
And Margaret within the Xebec sailed ; 

The lulling wind m ide music in her eais, 

And nothing to her life's completeness failed* 

IL'r pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, 

And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. 

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, 
As daisies to the children of the land ; 

Ri'(l wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner 

Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand ; 

The vessel and the sea were h* r life's stage — 

Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. 

Also she had a cabin of her own. 
For beauty like an elfin palace bright, 



464 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

With Venice ghss adorned and cryst.al stone, 
That trembled with a many- colored light ; 
And there with two caged ringdoves she did pla** 
And feed them carefully from day to day. 

Her bed with silken curtains was inclosed, 
White as the snowy rose of Guelderland ; 

On Turkish pillows hei' yountjr head reposed, 
And love had gathered wiih a careful hand 

Fail playthings to the little maiden's side, 

From distant ports, and cities parted wide. 

She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, 

And think all trees were like to them that grew ; 

Foi' things on land she did confuse and blend, 
And chicflv from the deck the hiuv! she knew. 

And in her heart she pitied more and more 

The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. 

Green fields! and inland meadows faded out 
Of mind, or with sea images were linked ; 

And vet she had her childish thoutihts about 
Tlie country she had left — though indistmct 

And faint as mist the mountain-liend that shrouds^ 

Or (liui through distance as Magellan's clouds. 

And when to frame a forest scene she fried, 
Tlie ever-present sea would yet intrude, 

And all her towns were by tlie water's side, 
It murmured in all moorland solitude, 

Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervent^ 

Amt waves would eA^a her fancied village green ; 

Because her heart was like an ocean shell, 

Tliat holds (men sny) a message from the deep ; 

And yet the Intid was strong, she knew its spell, 
And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep ; 

And minster chim"s from pierced i owers that swim, 

Were the land-angels making God a hymn. 



THE TWO MARGARETS, 485 

9o she grew on, the idol of one heart, 
And the deliglit of many — and her face, 

Th'is dwelling uhietiy from her sex apart, 

W.is touched wittj a most deep and tender grace — 

A look that never aught but nature gave, 

Artless, yet thoughtful ; innocent, yet grave. 

Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent 
A golden net contined her nut-brown hair ; 

Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, 
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care. 

Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet. 

Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. 

The sailor folk were glad because of her. 

And deemed good fortune followed in her wake ; 

She was their guardian saint, they did aver — 
Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake ; 

And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nighllj 
made, 

While, storm or calm, she slept, in naught afraid. 

Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea. 
Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse. 

She sat, and communed what the worhl could be ' 
And rambling stories caused her to rehearse 

How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the ha' 

And how bells rang upon a wedding day. 

But they grew brighter when the evening star 
First trembled over the still glowing wave, 

That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar ; 
For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, 

Will him who served for father, friend, and guide, 

She eat upon ciie deck at eventide. 

Then turned towards the west, that on her hair 
And her young cheek shed down its tender glow 

He taught her many things with earnest care 
Thai he thought tittmg a young maid should know, 



460 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Told of tbe good deeds of the worthy dead, 
And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs isaid. 

And many psalms he caused her to repeat 

And smg them, at his knees reclined the while, 

And spoke with her in all things good and meet. 
And told the story of her native isle, 

Till at the end he made her tears to flow, 

Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. 

And of the stars he taught her, and their names. 
And how the cliartless mariner they guide : 

Of quivering light that in the zenith flame^', 
Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide ; 

Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, 

Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child.. 

To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread. 
The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, 

The camel thrusting down a snake-like head 

To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. 

Where palmy clusters rank by rank ujiright 

Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. 

And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird 
Becalmed, lo, the lions answered in the night 

Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred 
To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight, 

Dving in weird faint moans ; — till, look ! the sun 

And night, and all the things of night, were done. 

And they, toward the waste as morning brakp, 
'J'urned, where, inisled in his green watered landj. 

T.'ie l.ybian Zesis lay couched of old, and spake, 
Hemmed in with leagues of furrow -faced sand— 

1'hen saw the moon (iike Joseph's golden cup 

Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. 

But blooming childhood will not always last, 

And storms will rise e'en on the titleless sea; 
Uvs guardian love took fright, she grew so fast 



TfTS. TWO MARGARETS. 467 

And he hoiyan to think how sad 'twould he 
If he should die, and [>irate hordes should get • 
By sword or shipwreck liis lair Margaret. 

It was a sudden thought ; hut he gave way, 

For it .^.ssaik'd him will) unwonted force ; 
And, with T10 more than one siiort week's delay, 

•Fcr Englisii shores he shaped the vessel's course; 
And ten ye.trs ahsent saw her lauded now, 
With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. 

And so he journeyed with her, far inl;ind, 

Down quiet lanes, hy lietlges genunt'd with dew, 
Where wonders met her eye on every hand, 

Aud all w.'is heautiful and strange and new- 
All, from the foi-est trees i?j stately ranks. 
To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. 

All new — the long-drawn slope of evening shades 
The sweet solemnities of waxing light. 

The white-haired lioys, the blushing rustic maids, 
'i'he ruddy gleam through cottage easements bright 

The green of jiastures, bloom of garden nooks, 

And endless bubbling of the water brooks. 

So far he took them on through this green land, 
The uiaiden and her nurse, till journeying 

They saw at last a peaceful city stand 

On a steep mount, and heanl its clear hells ring. 

High were the towers and rich with ancient state. 

In its old wall inclosed and massive gate. 

There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, 
To whom in time of war he gave good aid, 

Shielding her household from the plundering crew 
When neither law could bind nor worth persuade .; 

And to her house he brought his care and pride, 

Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. 

And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, 
Delayed not shortly his request to make, 



488 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

VVl.u'h was, if anijht. of )ipr he did deserve, 

To take ihe in.iid, and irur litT U>\ his sake^ 
To guard her youth, and lei he:' hieediiig bd 
In wuinaidy reserve and modesty. 

An<l thai same nifjht into the house he brought 
'IMie costly fniits of all his voyages — 

fticl. Indian genis of \\anderin<>; eiaftsmen wroughti 
Long ro|K's of pearls Irom Persian palaces, 

Willi ingots purf and coins of \'crnce mold, 

And silver bars and bags ol' ISpanish gold ; 

And costlv merchandise of far.ofT lands, 

And gol(U-n stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye^ 

Irle gave thetn over to the matron's hands. 
With jeweled gauds, and toys of ivory, 

To he her dower on w liont his love was set,— 

His dearest ciuld, lair Madam Margaret. 

Then he entreated, that if he should die. 

She wtMiM ni)t cease her guar<Iian mission mild. 

Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, 
Beside tiie pillow of the sleeping child. 

Severed one watwlcring lock of wavy hair, 

Took horse that iiighi, and left her unaware. 

And it was loner before be came again — 
So long thai Margaret was woman grown} 

And oft she wished for his return in vain, 
CaMiniJC him softly in an undertone ; ' 

Repeating wonls that he had said the while, 

And St ri villi: to recall his look and smile. 



o 



It" she had known — ob, if she could have kno»«» ^ 
The toils, the hardshi))s of those absent yeart' — 

[low liittcr thraildom forced the unwilling groan -— 
Hon' slavery wrung out subtluing tears, 

Nr>t calmly had she passed her hours away. 

Chiding half pettishly the long delay. 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 469 

But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, 
Wliile tlie red fiiiajs ascemled I'l-otn llie deek ; 

Saw not tlie pirate bauil the urew disarm, • 

Mourned not the HoaiinLj spars, the sniokino" wreck 

S'ne did not divai:;, and there was luuie to tell 

That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. 

Sweet Ma?'garet — withdrawn from human view. 
She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, 

The stately trees that in the garden gre^^', 
And, ovortwitu'd, a towering shelter made ; 

She musef^ among the Howers, and l)ird.s, and bees, 

In './indi'g walks, and bowering canopies ; 

Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, 

Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams ; 

^nd tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms 
I)is[)Iayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams ; 

\nd, come at noon because ilie well was deep, 

lieaiitiful Rachel leading down her sheep. 

At last slie reached the bloom of womanhood. 
After five summers spent in growing fair ; 

ir.'r face betokened all things dear and good, 
The light of somewhat yet to come was there 

Aslee|), and waiting for the opening day, 

When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away, 

O ! we are far too happy while they last : 

We have our good things first, and th(!y cost naught { 

Then the new splendor conies un fathomed, vast, 
A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought. 

And will n it wait, and cannot be possessed. 

Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. 

And time, tliat seemed so long, is fleeting by, 

And life is more than life ; love more tlian love ^ 

We have not found the whole — and we must die ~^ 
And still the unclasped glory floats above. 

The inmost and tlie utmost faint from sight, 

.t Wever secret m their veil of liijht. 



470 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Be not too liasty in your flow, you rhymes, 
For Margaret is iu lier gardeu bower ; 

Delay to ring, you st»t't eailieilial eliiuies, 

Anil tell not out, too soon llie noontide hour; 

For one draws nearer to your ancient town, 

On the green mount down settled like a crown. 

He journeyed on, and, as he ncared the gate, 
lie met with one to whom lie named the maid, 

Inquiring of iier welfare, and her state, 

And of the matron in wlu)S(> Iumnc she stayed. 

** The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said j 

"But, tor the ancient lady, — blie was dead." 

He further said, she was hut little known, 

AlihouLih rei>uted to he vei'v fair, 
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) 

Hut with hci- nur^e at stated morning ))rayer ; 
So seldom j)assed her sheltering garden wall, 
C>r left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on the door ; 
King out. ye noonday bells, his welcoming — • 
*' He went out rich, but he rctuinclh jioor ;" 

And strong — now something bowed with suffering ; 
And on his brow are traced lon.i furro.vcd lines. 
Earned in the light with pirate Algeiines. 

Ilcr aged nurse comes hohhling at his ^all ; 

Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, 
And, tottering, leads hin> through the ]>illarcd hall ; 

" What ! come at last ti» bless my lady's eyes ! 
Dear heart, swoct heart, she's grown a likesoiue maid — 
Cio, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." 

The noonday ihime h.ad ceased — she did not know 
Who watched her, wliile her ringdoves fluttered near. 

AVhile, under the green houghs, in accents low 
She sang unto herself. She did not hear 

His footstep till she turned, then rose to meet 

Her guest with guileless blush and -wonder sweeL 



THE TWO MARGARETS. «7l 

3iit eooji she know liiin, came witli quickened pao6| 
Auil put liergciW'e hauils al»out his neck ; 

■Xinl leaned her I'air cheek to Ins sunbuj'iied t'aoe^ 
As long a,!jo upon the vesscrs deck : 

As K)nLj ago she did in t\\ iiight deep, 

When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. 

So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, 
And, proudly partmg her nnbraided hair, 
He said : " 1 ditl not think to see tliee grown 

iSo fair a woman," — but a toucli of care 
The deep toned voice ihrongli its caressing kept> 
And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. 

Wept, — for an imj)ress on the face she viewed — 
The stamp of feelings she remembered not ; 

His voice was calmer now, but more sr.bdued, 
Not like (he voice long loved and unfoigotl 

Slie felt strange sorrow and delightful pain — > 

Grief for the change, joy that he came again. 

O j)leasant days, that followed liis return, 

'J'h:it made his captive years pass out of mind ; 

If life had yet more pains for him to learn, 
Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined ; 

And three full weeks he stayed with her, content 

To lind her beautiful and innocent. 

It was all one in his contented sight 

As t!ii>ag'» shii w.M'e a child, till suddenly, 

Waked of the chinu's in the dead time of the nigb^ 
Ho fell to thiidcing how the urgency 

Of Fate had <lealt with him, and could hut sigh 

For those bi'st things wherein she passed him by. 

Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, 
She urged him on, still on, to siidc or swim ; 

And all at once, as if a veil did lift, 

In the dead time of the night, and bare to liira 

The want in his deep soul, he iooki'd, was dumb, 

And knew himself, and knew his time was come. 



I7» THE TWO MARGARETS. 

In the dear! time of the night his soul did sound 
"j'he daik sea ot a trouble unforeseen, 

For that one sweet tliat to his life was bound 
Had turned into a want — a misery keen : 

Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried 

All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. 

He "was a brave man. and he took this thing 

And cast it from him with a man's strong hand } 

And next morn, witli no sweet altering 
Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, 

And copied his past self till ebbing day 

Paled its deep western bhish, and died away. 

And then he told her that he must depart 
Upon the morrow, with the earliest light ; 

And It displeased and pained her at the heart, 
And she went out to hide her from his sight 

Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, 

And be apart from him awhile to weep 

And to lament, till, suddenly aware 
Of steps, she siartid up as fain to flee. 

And met him in the moonlight pacing there, 

Who questioned with her why her tears might be. 

Till she did nnswer him, all red for shame, 

*'Ivind sir, I weep — the >vanting of a name." 

" A name ! " quoth he, and sighed. " I never knew 
Thy father's name ; but many a stalwart youth 

Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too, 
And count himself a happy man forsooth. 

Is there none here who thy kind thought hath wot T 

But she did falter, and made answer, " None." 

Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, 

He said, " Dear daughter, it would please me wel] 

To see thee wed ; for know it is not good 
That a fair woman thus nhme should dwell.*' 

She said, " 1 am content it should be so. 

If when you journey 1 may with yuu go." 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 473 

This when he heard, ho thouglit, right sick at heart 
Must 1 withstaiul myself, and aLo ihcc V 

Thou, also thou ! must nobly do thy pari ; 

Taat honor leads thoo on which liokls b:iek i:i«-. 

No^ tliou sweet woman ; hy love'i! g cat increast 

I will reject thee for thy truer peace. 

Then said he, " Lady ! — look \\\\o\\ my face ; 

Consider well this sc r U|»ou my brow ; 
I have had all misfortune but dsgrace ; 

I do not look for mairiiige blessings now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know 
Thou thiiik'st it is tliy duty — 1 will go I 

"I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, 

Skilled in the nason ; though my heart be rude, 

\ will not wrong thy gentle innocence, 
N<>r take advantage of thy gratitude, 

But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, 

The more for thee — of woman's nobleness." 

Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, 
As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, 

A.nJ her white raiment <;listened in his sinht. 
And hark ! the vesper chimes bi-gan to sound. 

Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, 

And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. 

A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead. 
They sent their message sifting through the boughs 

Of cedars ; when they ceased his lady sa'd, 
" Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows 

She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, 

An 1 one short moment looked hnn in the face. 

Then strai^rht he cried, "O sweetheart, think all one 
A< no woril yet were s.iid between us tvvani, 

And know thou ihat in this I yield to none — 
I love thee .^weetlK'arr,, love thee ! " so full fain, 

While she did leave to sik^ice all her part. 

He took the gleaming whiteness lo his hearts 



4U THE TWO MARGARETS, 

The wliite-tubcd maiden with the warm white throatj 
The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, 

Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note. 
Entreating him, and saying, " Do not go ! " 

" I will not, sweetheart ; ncy, not now," quoth he, 

" By faith and troth, I think tliou art for me ! " 

And so slie won a name that eventide, 

Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bes; eak, 

And she became the rough sca-eaptaiu's bride, 

Matchiiig hei dimples to liis sunburnt cheek ; 
And chasing fi'om his voice the touch of care. 
That made her weep when first she heard it there. 

One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, 
But O ! it went so fast, too fast away. 

Then came that trouble which fidl oft doth bless — 
It was the evening of a sultry day. 

There was no wind the thiead-hung flowers to stir. 

Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. 

Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, 
Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet ; 

And he recalled, and pondered as he went. 

All her most duteous love and converse sweet, 

Till summer daikness settled deep and dim, 

And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The Howers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
Thick leaves shut ont tlie starlight overhead ; 

While he told over, as by strong constraint 
Drawn on, her childish I i'e on shipboard led 

And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there^ 

With fohled hands she lisped her evening prayer, 

Tlien he remembered liow, beneath the shade. 
She wooed him to her with her lovely words, 

While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight played, 
And in dark nooks withdrew the siiei.t birds. 

So pondered lie t'^at night in twilight dim. 

While dew from bending leaves dropt down on bira. 



1 



THE TWO MARGAkETS. 4^ 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
When, in the darkness waiting, lie saw one 

To whom he said — " How fareth my sweet saint?'' 
Who .'inswered — " She hath borne to yon a 8;)n;" 

Tlieii, turning, left him, — and the father said, 

" God rain down blessings on his welcome head 1 ** 

But, Margaret ! — she never saw the child, / 
Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wailt. 

But to tiie last, with occ^an dreams beguiled, 
Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails- 

Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen. 

And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . , 

Woe and alas ! — the times of sorrow come, 
And make us doubt if we were ever glad ! 

So utterly that inner voice is dumb, 

Whose music through our happy days we had I 

So, at the touch of grief, without our will, 

The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. 

Woe and alas ! for the sea-captain's wife — 
That Margaret who in the Xebec played — 

She, spent u|)on his knee her baby life ; 

Her slum bcn-ing head upon his breast she laid. 

How shall he learn alone iiis years to pass? 

How in the empty house ? — woe and alas I 

She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, 

They made her grave ; and there, with fond intent, 

Hlm' husband raisi'd, his sorrow to beguile, 
A very fair and stately monument v 

Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet). 

The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. 

A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, 
The quiet head declined in slumber sweet ; 

Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed; 
And a long ensign Folded at her feet. 

And carved upon the bordering of her vest 

The motto of her house — " He yiveth rcst.^' 



476 THE SHEPHERD LADY 

riiore is an nncient window richly francrht 

All'! rrettt'fl with all hues most vj':h, most bright, 

Ai'l its npi'er rra'i'rv inwioiiaht 

An olivf-hraiich :ind dove wic(<>-winged and white 

All (MnbU'in meet for her. the lender dove, 

lltr lie.ivenly peace, her dut«^ous earthly love. 

Am'd lnjraldic shields Ptid banners set, 
In twisted knots T.i-^(k wildly-tangled bands. 

Crimson and giee:i. .'ind gold and violet, 
V:\\\ softly on the snowy scnlptnred hands ; 

And whc'.i tnc simshine comes, full sweetly rest 

i'he- jo/e a'.icl olive-branch upon her breast. 



THE SHEPHERD LADY. 



Who pipes npon the long green hill, 

When- meailow giass is deep ? 
The white lamb bleats b'lt fdloweth on-* 

Follow the clean white shee]>. 
The dear white lady in yr.n high tower, 

t>he hearkeneth in htH' sleep. 

All in long grass the pij.er stands, 

Goodly and grave is he ; 
Outside the tower, at dawn of day, 

The noti's of liis pipe ring free. 
A thought from his heart doth reach to here 

"Come down, O lady ! to me." 

She lifts her head, she dons her gown : 

Ah ! the l.idy is fair ; 
She ties the girdle on her waist, 

And hinds her Hnxcn hair. - 
And doivii she stealeth, down and down, 

Down the turret stair. 



"Jl 



THE SHEPHERD LAD V 4 

Behold him ! With the lluctk he vvons 

Along yon gnissy lea. 
"My shepherd lord, my .shepherd love, 

What wilt thou, then, with me? 
My heart is gone o\it oi" my breast, 

And followeth on to thee." 

• 

II. 

" Tho white lamhs Feed in tender grass ; 

With them and thee to bide, 
How good it were," she sailh at noon ^ 

" Albeit the meads ai'e wide. 
Oh ! well is me, " she sailh when day 

Draws on to eventitle. 

Hark! hark! the shepherd's voiee. Oh, sweet ! 

Her tears droj) down like rain. 
*' Take now this crook my chosen, my fere, 

And tend t!ie flock full" fain ; 
Feed them, O lady, and lose not one, 

Till 1 shall come again. " 

Right soft her speech : " My will is thine 

And my reward ihy grace 1 " 
Gone are his footsteps over the hill, 

Withdrawn his goodly face ; 
The mournful dusk begnis to gather, 

Tho daylight wanes apace. 

III. 

On sunny slopes, ah I long tho lady 

Feedetli her flock at noon ; 
She leads it down to driidv at eve 

Where the small rivulets croon. 
All night her locks are wet with dew 

Her eyes outwatch tho moon. 

Beyond the hills her voice is heard. 
JShe sings when life doth wane : 



4t8 LOVE'S TkREAb OP COlM, 

" My longing heart is full of love, 
Nor sball my watch be vain. 

My shepherd lord, I see him not, 
But he will come again." 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 

AyD can this be my own world ? 

'Tis all gold and snow, 
Save where the scarlet waves are hurley' 

Down yon gulf below? 
Tis thy world, 'tis my world, 

City, mead, and shore. 
For ho that hath his own world 

Hath many worlds more. 



LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. 

In the night she told a story, 

In the niglit and all night through, 
While the moon was in her glory, 

And the brandies dropped with dew 
'Twas my life she told, and round it 

Rose the years as from a deep ; 
In the world's great Iieart she found H 

Cradled like a child asleep. 
In tlie night I saw her weaving 

By the misty moonbeams cold, 
All the weft her shuttle cleaving 

With a sacred thread of gold. 
Ah ! she wept me tears of sorrow. 

Lulling tears so mystic sweet ; 
Then she wove my last to-mnvrow, 

And her web lay at my feet. 

Of my life she made the story : 
I must weep — so soon 'twas tojd ! 
But your name did lend it glory, 

And your love its thread of gold . 



0N£ MORNING. OH t SO EARL Y 47fi 

FAILURE. 

We are much bound to them that do succeed ; 

But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound 

To sucli as fail. They all our loss exjiound j 
riiey comfort us for work that will not speed. 
And life — itself a failure. 

Ay, his deed. 

Sweetest in story, who the dnsk profound 

Of Hades Hooded with entrancing sound, 
Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read 
Thertfore the worse? Ah, no ! so much to dare 

He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne. — 
So much to do ; impetuous even there. 

He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan — 
He wins ; but few for that his deed recall : 
Its power is in the look which costs hira all. 



ONE MORNING, OH ! SO EARLY. 

OxE morT'ing, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved. 
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they 

would cease ; 
'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, " Hear the story, 
hear the story ! " 

Anil the lark sang, " Give us glory ! " 
And the dove said, " Give us peace ! '*" 

Then I listened, oh I so early, my beloved, my be* 

loved, 
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my 

dear, the dove ; 
When the nightingale came after, <' Give us fame to 
weeten duty ! " 
When the wren sang, " Give us beauty ! ' 
She made answer, " Give us love ! " 

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my belovfeu, 
rny belov5d ; 



480 THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 

Now for us doth spring, dolh morning, wail npon thti 

year's increasi', 
And my prayer goes up, " Oli, give us, crowned in 
youth with marriage glory, 

Give us all oiii- life's dear story, 
Give us love, and give us peace ! " 



THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 

When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the 
goers. 
Oh ! full oft I have a vision of the days without 
alloy. 
And a ship comes up the river with a jelly gang of 
towers, 
And a " puU'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, voy ! heave, 
hoy 1 » 

There is busy ta^c around me, all about mine ears it 
humuieth, 
But the w oodcn wharves I look on, and a dancing, 
heaving buoy, 
Foi 'tis tidotime in the river, and she comcth — oh, 
she Cometh ! 
With a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy ! heave, 
hoy ! " 

ITisn I hear the water washing, never golden waves 
were brighter. 
And I hear the capstan creaking — 'lis a sound that 
cnnnot cloy. 
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, 
sloop or lighter. 
With a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy I heave, 
hoy 1 " 

" Will ye step aboard, my dearest ? for the high seas 
lie before us." 



ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN 4bl 

So I sailed with him the river in those days with- 
out alloy ; 
/Sailed afar, Inii wiien, I wonder, shall a sweetei 
soiitul lluul o'er us 

Than yon "puU'e huul'e, puH'e haul'e, yoy I heavei 
boy 1 " 



THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES. 

Drop, drop from the leaves of iign aloes, 
O honey-dew ! drop from the tree. 

Float lip througli your clear river shallows. 
White lilies, beloved of the bee. 

Let the people, O Queen ! say, and bless thee 
Her bounty drops soft as the dew, 

And spotless in honor confess thee, 
As lilies are spotless in hue. 

On tne roof stands yon white stork awaking 
His feathers flush rosy the while, 

For, lo ! from the blushing east breaking. 
The 8 m sheds the bloom of his smile. 

Let then boast of thy word, " It is certalu t 
We djubt it no more," let them say, 

"Than to-morrow that night's du^ky curt:.af 
Shall roll back its folds for the day." 



ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN 

On the rocks by Aberdeen, 
Where the whislin' wave had beer 
As 1 wandered and at e'eu 
Was eerie , 



489 FEATHERS AND MOSS. 

There I saw thee sailing west, 
And I ran with joy opprcst — 
Ay, and took out all my best, 
My dearie. 

Then I busked mysel' wi' spoed, 

And the neighbors cried "What need 

'Tis a lass in any weed 

Aye bonny 1 " 
Now ray heart, my heart is sair : 
What's the good, thou I be lair. 
For thou'lt never see me mail, 

Man Johnnie I 



FEATflERS AND MOS& 

rHB marten flew to the finch's nest, 
Fealheis and moss, and a wisp ol" hay : 

'' ji he ai-row it sped to thy brown mate's brea^ 
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." 

*•* Liest thou low, love ? low in the broom ? 

F'eathers and moss, and a wisp of liay, 
Warm the white ec^ers till I learn his doom.'* 

She beateth her wings, and away, away. 

''All, my sweet singer, thy days are told 
(PV'atliers and moss, and a wisp of hay) ! 

Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold, 
O mournful morrow ! O dark to-day I'* 

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, 
Icatliers and moss, and a wisp of hay, 

Mine IS the trouble that rent her breast. 
And home is silent, aud love :« clay. 



UY FAIR LABY. tSR 



flwKKT Is chiMTioo'1 — childljooc's ovetj 

K ISM ',\\\i\ |>art. 
Sweet is youih ; Imi yuth'-^ a rover — 

i>u's my hcail. 
Sweel is rest ; ir.n l.y a-1 showing 

'Jtiil IS niL'!:, 
Wemu-Ht go. Alas i lin- gfing, 

ISay " goo'J by." 



THE GYPST'S SELLING SOKG. 

Mv good man — lie's an olrl, old man, 

And iJiy good man gol a fall. 
To l>nv nie a bircraiii so last he ran 
When he lieard tlie gypsies call : 
** liny, buy hrushos, 
Baskt'ls wrougiu o' rushes. 
Buy ihem, buy ihem, lake ibem, try tbeHij 
liu}', dames all." 

My olrl man, he has money and land, 

And a young, young wife ;im L 
Let ninri put tlie penny in my white hand 
When he hears the gypsies cry : 
• •* Huy, buy hices. 
Veils to screen yoiir faces. 
Buy them, buy Uiem, take and try them. 
Buy, mauls, buy." 



MY FAIK LADY. 

My fair lady's a dear, dear lady — 

1 walked by her side to woo. 
In a garden alley, so sweet an<i shady. 
She answered, " 1 loVe not you, 
.lohn, John Brady," 
(^uoth my dear lady, 



184 MASTER, QUOTH THE ALLD HOVNlk 

'iVay now. prnv now, go your way new, 

f>o, Jol;ii. do." 
Yol my l:iM ladyV my own, own lady, 

For I [(asKcd ariotht-r day ; 
Willie in.-ikinu: iicr moan, slie sat all aicnO) 
And iliiis and thus did ^lle say ; 

".lolui. J..hn Hrady," 

Qiiovti niy <i<ar lady, 
••Do now, <i«> now, once more WOO T^orv^ 

I'rav, JoliU, i>ray I " 



SLEEI' AM.) TniK 

** Wakb, haiilK', wnUo I the crafts are out \ 
Wake 1 " said ilie knight, " he qt;iek 1 

For hijjh Rtn-et, by rtreet, over the lo\iii 
They fijj'*' \s'\\\\ pokor and stick." 

Said iho ^'quire, " A fi<rht su I'eii was ne'er 
In all thy haillicwu-k." 

Wiiai 6ai(i l^e olfl <-iork in the lower? 
" Tick, lick, lick I " 

" Wake, (langhter, wake ! the hour draws on \ 
Wake," ijiutth the dam*', " be quick I 

The niea's are set, the guests are coming, 
The tiddler waxiii<j his stick." 

She sai(i, "The hndegroom waiting and waiting 
To see ihy taee is sick." 

Wl.al said the i)*.-w clock in her hower ? 
*♦ Tick, lick, tick 1 » 



MASTER, QUOTH THE AULD nOUTSO). 

*♦ JVIastkr," quoth the auld hound, 

" Where will ye go 'i ** 
*'Ov»r moss, over muir, 

To court my new jo." 
** Master, though the night be merk, 

X^se lollow through the 6uow. 



UKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 488 

•* Co'irt her, master, court her, 

80 Khali ye (Jo ueei \ 
Bui and hen she'll guide the house, 

Tse gel milk ami irieal, 
le'se f^el liltnig wliile she 8it8 

Willi her rock and reel." 

•* For, oh 1 she has a sweet tongue, 

And ecu thai look down, 
A ffold girdle for her waist, 

And a purple gown. 
She has a good word forbye 

Fra a' folk in the lown." 



-UKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIF'3\ 

Tt*& -y.two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, 
All ine world and we two, and IK-aven be our stay 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O honny bnde ! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What's the world, my lass, my love I — what can it 

do? 
I ar.i thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, 
For W3 two have gotten leave, and once more we'll 

try. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride I 
It's we two, it's we two, happy si<le by side. 
Take a kiss from me thy man ; now the song begins . 
" All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." 

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine 
Tliou shall dry ray tears, la"**!, and I'll dry thine. 
It's we two, it's we iwo, whili; the world's away, 
Sitting by tlio goldeu sheaves oa our weddiiig-day. 



m AT ONE AGAIN, 

AT ONE AGAIK. 

L NOONDAY. 

Two angry mPB — in heat tlioy pever, 

And one u'oes hoine bv a harvest field i—- 

"Hope's naught," quoth he, "and vain endeavor : 
1 said and say it, 1 will not yield ! 

"As for this -vvronof, no art can mend it, 
'J'he bond is shiverVJ that held us twain; 

Old triiMids we be, but law must end it, 
Whether for loss or whether lor gum. 

" Yon stresra is sniall — full slow its wcndingj 
liiJt winning is sweet, hut riulit is tine ; 

And shoal i f tiO'.:t, or willowy bending — 

Though Law be costly — I'll prove them mine. 

"IIi« strawberry cow slipped loose her tether. 
And trod the best of my barley down ; 

Hisiittle lasses at jtlay together 

Pluck'd the pop])ies my boys had gro'sm. 

** What then — Why naught ! ^he hck'd of reason ; 

And they — my little ones match them well : — 
But this — Nay all things have their season, 

And 'tis my season to curb and quell." 

n. SUNSET. 

So paith Tie, "wTien noontide fervors flout him, 
So thinks, when the West is amber and red, 

Whrn he smells the hop-vines sweet about him, 
And the clouds are rosy overhead. 

While slender and tall the hop-poles poing 
Straight to the W'?st in their hafy lines, 

Portion it out into chambors, glowing. 
And bask m red day as the sun declines. 



ATON-EAGAm, 481 

Between the leaves in his latticed arbor 
III' sees the sky, as lliey flutter and turn, 

While moor'd like boats in a srolden harbor 
'i'l)e fleets of feathery cloudlets burn. 

Witiidrawn in shadow, he thinketh over 

Harsh thouglits, tlu^ fniit-lailen trees among, 

Till pheasants call their young to cover, 
And cushats coo them a nursery song. 

And iloeks of ducks forsake their sedges, 
\Ven<rmii home to the wide bnrn-duor. 

And loaded wains between the hedges 
Slowly creep to his thre&hing fluor — • 

Slowly creep. And his tired senses, 

P^loat him over the maijic stream, 
To a world where Fancy recora|iense8 

Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream! 

ni. THE DKEAM. 

What's this? a v/ood — What's that? one calleth| 

Calleth and crieth in mortal dread — 
lie hears men sii-ive — then somewliat fallcth I — 

" Help me, neighbor — I'm hard bedstead." 

The dream is strong — the voice he knoweth — 
Bat when he would nui, his feet are fast. 

And death lies beyond, and no man goeth 
To help^ and he says the time is past. 

His feet are held, and he shakes all over, — 

Nay — they are free — he has fouixl the place ^ 

Green boughs are gather'd — what is't they cover ?— • 
" 1 pray you, look on the dead man's face ; 

You that stand hy," he saith, and cowers — 

" Man, or Angel, to guard the dead 
With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers, 

And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead,— 



€88 AT ONE AG AW. 

I dare not loolc. TTo wronged me never. 

Mjn 8:iy we differM ; they speak amiss t 
Tbis man and I were neigliboris ever — 

1 would have ventured my life for bis. 

But fast my feet were — fast with tangles- 
Ay I words — but they were not sliarp, I trow. 

Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles — 
O pitiful sigbt — 1 see tbee now I — 

If we fell out, 'twas but fonl weather, 
After long siiining ! O bitter cup, — 

What — dead? — why, man, we ])lay'd together— 
Art dead — ere a friend can make it up ? " 



ir. THE WAKmo. 

Over his head the chafer hummelh 
Under liis feet shut daisies bend : 

Waken, man ! the enemy conielh. 

Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. 

He cannot waken — and firm, and steady, 
The enemy com'^s witli lowering brow : 

He looks for war, his heart is leady. 

His thougbtR are bitter — be will not bow. 

H-1 fronts the sent, — the dream is flinging 
A spell t]>at his footsteps may not bi'eak,— s 

Bnt one ixi llie garden of heps is sirgirg — 
The dr^itmer bears it, and starts awake. 

T. A SONG. 

Walking apart, she thinks none listen ; 

And now slie carols, and now she stops | 
And tne evenincr star begins to glisten 

At.ww-<i the lines of blossoming hops. 



AT ONE AG Am. 489 



Sweetest Mercy, your tnotlier taught you 



ignt yo 
All uses uihI iiuxs lliiiL to tiiau.l> bciuiifr 



Apt sc'liolar to ri-utl and lo sew sliu tlutiight you 
S!iu ilid iiuL tL'ucli you liiut ttiider bou^' — 

" The lady sanpf in her charmiLMl hower, 

.Sliiltereil ;iii I s ife umL-r r"<>se< b.().vi) — 
^ ISf.'irm cannot touch me, laiil, nor shower^ 
W.icre all alone I sit, all alone. 

Mil hower ! The fair Fay twined it round met 
Care nor troidde can pierce it throu;jh. / 

Uut once 'I sif/h from the warm world foand me 
Jjctween two leaves that were bent with dew. 

And day to night, and nifjht to morrow, 
Thonyh soft as slundxr the long hours wore 

I looked for my dower of love, of so'^row — 
Is there no more — no more — no moie?* 

Give 111 r tlie snii-sweet light, and duly 
To walk in shadow, nor chide her part; 

Give lier llie rose, and truly, truly — 

To wear its ihom with a patient heart — 

Mi sty as dreams the nioonheam lieth 

Checkereii and faint on lier charmed floor ; 

The l.idy s:iig(nli, tiie lady sigiieth — 

Is there no more — no more — no mors / '* 



VI. LOVERS, 

A ORASK of bouiihs i — one tlirongh them breaking I 

M-'rcy is starileil, ;'nd fain wouM Hy, 
But e'en a-s slie tuins, her stena o'ertaking, 

lie pleads wiih .her — " jlcicy, it is but I 1" 



490 AT OJ^E AGAIN, 

'' Mercy ! ** he touclips lier hand unbidden—* 
" Tlie air is baliiis, 1 |iray yoii tstay — 

Mercy ?" her tlowncast eyes are hidden, 
And never a word she lias lo say. 

Till closer drawn, her prison'd fingers 

He takes to ]'.?r< [V 5 with a yearning strong ; 

And she niurinn » low, that late she lingers, 
Her mother will want her, and think her long 

"Good mother is she, then honor duly 
Tiie lightest wish in her heart that stirs J 

But tlierc is a bond yet dearer truly, 
And there is a love that passeth hers, 

*' ]Mercy, Mercy !'■ Iler heart attendcth — 

Love's l>irthday bkjsii on her brow lies sweet ; 

She lurns her face when his own l.c bendelh, 
And the lips ot the youth and the maiden meet: 

VII. FATHERS. 

Move througli the bowcring hops, O lovers,— 
Wander down to the golden \Vest, — 

But two staiui mute in the shade that covers 
Your lovo and youth from their souls opprest. 

A little shame on their spirits stealing,— 

A little pride that is loth to sue, — 
A little struggle with sofien'd feeling,— 

And a work! of fatherly care for you« 

One safs : " To this same running water. 

May be. Neighbor, your claim is best." 
And one — " Your son has kissed my daughter ? 

Ltjc the matters between us — rest." 



NOTE:y 4»a 



NOTEa 



""Taa Dreams that Camb True." 

Page 188. 

This atory I first wrote in prose, and it was published some 
years ago. 

A Story of Doom." 
Page 256. 

The name of the palrlarcb's wife is intended to be pronounceJ 

Nii-li-ioiya. 

Of iliu llirce snn<* of'Noalj — Slicin, ITiim. and Jnpliol— T have 
cal!i'(l .laphi-l Die voiiMncst {l» cause he is iilways nanfiMi lasl), 
nud have siipp'iscd ihil, in I h(; .i;('ii('al(>i;i<'s where lie is enned 
" Japhit iht elder," lie may have leeeived ibe epitliet becau^ 
by liial lime iheie were younger Japlicis. 

Page SnS. 

The qiiivoring bnltcrflios in companies, 
That slowly crent adowu tlic euudy marge, 
Like living crocus beds. 

Tl)i9 heautifrd onmpaii«nn is (akon frnm "Tlio Natnrnlist on 
th« lliver Aiiimzoii." " Vasi niiniiter.s of oraiu'e ((/lored \>\\i- 
terflies eoii'jreiraied on the inoisl sands They {isst'ii.lilcd in 
deiisely-pacUf d masses, sonielinies i wo or 1 luce yards in cir- 
cmnrerence I heir wlni^H all held in an iipriL'^hi pos'liimi, po ijial 
the saadd looked as ikough vuriegulcd with beds of crocu&es." 

•'Gladys akd heu Island.' 

Page 345. 

The woman Is Tmagination ; slie is brooding over wliat 6b» 
broii-fhl forth. 



409 NOTES, 

Tiip two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and c; 

i list my 
TljL- giri IS Faacy 

•WlK STANLEY.* 

rage 380. 

Tiiio hfillarl wns infonded to lip one of n eet, nnd wfm re;id tr 

111 cliild'fii ii) (he Nniiomil Scli<)ii|.>. ni SIhm bcnic, DdiMl^iiire 

ii- ( rtlfi Id d scovcr whcUier il the jiclioiis of ii luio wcir vira 

p.y ;itiil j)l;iiiii\' iiJiii'iiicd. P>ti!i'Iisli (•iiildn-n wt^.uld i;ke to !":>.'". 

'>•=. versc-s lecordiug iiiem i;y iieart as iJieir foielatijers diit 



^ 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent; Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnologiej 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATI01 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 



